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ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH. 


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THE    POETICAl 
WORKS  OF  ARTHUI   m. 
HUGH  CLOUGH 


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NEW  YORK  AND   BOSTON 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  AND  Qjil'^y''^ 
COMPANY  Jt  jt  jt  j^  ^  ^  \M*^?l^ 


POEMS 


OF 


ARTHUR  HUGH   CLOUGH 


SOMETIME   FELLOW   OF   ORIEL   COLLEGE 
OXFORD 


mit\\  ilrmoir 


NEW  YORK :  4«  East  14th  STRerr 

^THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON:  100  Pubcuase  Strut 


Collagv 
Library 

0 


CONTENTS. 


PAOK 

MEMOIR vii 

EARLY  POEMS. 

An  Evening  Walk  iu  Spring 1 

An  Incident 3 

Tlie  Thread  of  Truth 4 

Revival 4 

The  Shady  Lane 6 

The  Higher  Courage 5 

Written  on  a  Bridge          .        .        .        .        .        .        •  7 

A  River  l*ool     .        . 7 

In  a  Lectm-e-Room 8 

'  Blank  Misgivings  of  a  Creature  moving  about  in  Worlds 

not  realised ' 8 

A  Song  of  Autumn 13 

t6  Ka\6v     ..........  14 

Xpvaia  kXt/j  itrl  yXwaaq.      .......  15 

The  Silver  Wedding 15 

The  Music  of  the  World  and  of  the  Soul  .        .        .        .17 

Love,  not  Duty 19 

Love  and  Reason 20 

'0  Qfbs  nera.  cod  \         ........  2,2 

Wirkung  in  der  Feme 23 

i-irl  AdT/xv 24 

A  Protest 27 

Sic  Itur 27 

Parting- 28 

Qua  Cursiini  Ventus 29 

'  Wen  Gott  betrugt,  ist  wohl  betrogen '    .        .        .        .30 

205^175 


iv  CONTENTS. 

POEMS  ON  RELIGIOUS   AND  BIBLICAL   SUBJECTS. 

PACE 

Fragments  of  the  Mystery  of  the  Fall       ....  33 

The  Song  of  Lamech 54 

Genesis  XXIV           .        . 57 

Jacob 59 

Jacob's  Wives 61 

The  New  Sinai 55 

Qui  laborat,  orat 68 

viivos  dv/jLvos        .........  69 

The  Hidden  Love 70 

Shadow  and  Liglit 71 

'Witli  Wliom  is  no  Variableness,   neither  Shadow  of 

Turnhig' 72 

In  Stratis  Viarum 72 

'  Perclife  pensa  ?     Pensando  s' inveccliia '  .         .         .73 

'  O  thou  of  little  Faith  ' 73 

'  Through  a  Glass  darkly  ' 74 

All !  yet  consider  it  again  1 75 

Noli  ajmulari 75 

'  What  went  ye  out  for  to  see  ?  ' 76 

Epi-strauss-iuni 77 

The  Shadow  («  Fragment) 77 

"^^Easter  Day  (Naples,  1849) 80 

Easter  Day,  II 84 

DIPSYCHUS 87 

Prologue 87 

Part  I 87 

Part  II 101 

Epilogue 132 

DIPSYCHUS  CONTINUED  (a  Frayment)           .        .        .  134 

POEMS  ON  LIFE   AND  DUTY. 

Duty .  141 

Life  is  Stmggle 142 

In  the  Great  Metropolis 143 

The  Latest  Decalogue 143 

>v  The  Questioning  Spirit 144 


\ 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAOK 

Bethesda  (a  Sequel) 146 

Hope  evermore  and  believe  ! 146 

Blessed  are  they  that  have  not  seen  I        .        .        .        .  147 

Cold  Comfort 148 

Sehnsucht 149 

High  and  Low 151 

All  is  well 162 

irdin-a  f>ei'  odSiv  fxivei           .......  152 

The  Stream  of  Life 163 

In  a  London  Square 164 

THE  BOTHIE  OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH  (a  Long-Vaca- 
tion Pastoral) 166 

IDYLLIC  SKETCHES. 

Ite  Domum  Saturae,  venit  Hesperus          ....  227 

A  London  Idyll 228 

Natura  naturans 230 

AMOURS  DE  VOYAGE 233 

SEVEN  SONNETS  ON  THE  THOUGHT  OF  DEATH  .  289 


MARI  MAGNO  ;  OR,  TALES  ON  BOARD  .293 

The  Lawyer's  First  Tale  :  Primitise,  or  Third  Cousins     .  296 

The  Clergyman's  First  Tale  :  Love  is  Fellow-service       .  314 

My  Tale  :  A  la  Banquette  ;  or,  a  Modern  Pilgrimage       .  321 

The  Mate's  Story 329 

The  Clergyman's  Second  Tale 331 

The  Lawyer's  Second  Tale  :  Christian      ....  339 


SONGS   IN  ABSENCE 861 

ESSAYS  IN  CLASSICAL  METRES. 

Translations  of  Iliad 363 

Elegiacs 3(57 

Alcaics      : 368 

ActsecMi 368 


vi  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

PAGE 

Come,  Poet,  come  ! 371 

The  Dream  Land 372 

In  the  Depths 373 

Darkness  (a  Fragment) 374 

Two  Moods 374 

Youth  and  Age 375 

Solvitur  acris  Hiems 376 

Thesis  and  Antithesis 377 

dve/ic6Xta     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          ,          .          .  378 

Columbus 379 

Even  the  Winds  and  the  Sea  obey 380 

Repose  in  Egypt 381 

To  a  Sleeping  Child 381 

Translations  from  Goethe 382 

Uranus 384 

Selene 385 

At  Rome 387 

Last  Words.     Napoleon  and  Wellington  ....  388 

Peschiera 390 

Alteram  Partem 391 

^  Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth         ....  392 


MEMOIR  OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


Arthur  Hugh  Clough  was  born  at  Liverpool,  January  1, 
1819.  He  was  the  second  son  of  James  Butler  Clough.  His 
father  belonged  to  an  old  Welsh  family,  who  trace  themselves 
back  to  Sir  Richard  Clough,  known  as  agent  at  Antwerp  to  Sir 
Thomas  Gresham.  His  mother's  name  was  Anne  Perfect.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  John  Perfect,  a  banker  at  Pontefract  in 
Yorkshire,  of  a  respectable  family  long  established  in  that 
place. 

Sir  Richard  Clough,  we  are  told,  was  related  on  his  mother's 
side  to  John  Calvin.  In  his  own  county  of  Denbigh  he  was 
evidently  a  man  of  considerable  position.  He  built  two  houses, 
Plas  Clough  and  Bachegraig,  about  the  year  1527.  He  married 
fii'st  a  Dutch  lady,  by  whom  he  had  a  son,  Richard,  who  carried 
on  the  name,  and  to  whom  he  bequeathed  Plas  Clough.  He 
married,  secondly,  Katharine  Tudor,  heiress  of  Beraiu,  and 
descendant  of  Mai-chweithian,  lord  of  the  Welsh  tribe  of 
Is-aled.  She  was  a  relation  and  ward  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
being  great-granddaughter  of  Henry  VII. ;  and  the  Queen's 
consent  is  mentioned  as  having  been  required  for  her  marriage. 
Sir  Richard  Clough  was  her  second  husband ;  and  the  story  is 
told  that  he,  as  well  as  Morris  Wynn  of  Gwydir,  accompanied 
her  to  her  first  husband's  funei-al,  and  that  Morris  Wynn  when 
leading  her  out  of  church  requested  the  favour  of  her  hand 
in  marriage,  to  which  she  answered  that  she  had  already  prom- 
ised it  as  she  went  in  to  Sir  Richard  Clough ;  but  added  that 
should  there  be  any  other  occasion  she  would  remember  him. 
After  the  death  of  Sir  Richard,  accordingly,  she  did  marry  him, 
and  afterwards  married,  fourthly,  Edward  Thelwall,  of  Plas-y- 
Ward.  She  is  said,  however,  to  have  preferred  Sir  R.  Clough 
to  her  other  husbands ;  and  a  curious  picture  of  her  exists,  a 


viii        LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

companion  to  a  somewhat  remarkable  one  of  Richard  Clough, 
holding  a  locket  containing  his  ashes,  in  one  hand,  and  resting 
the  other  on  his  skull. 

By  this  lady.  Sir  R.  Clough  had  only  two  daughters,  one  of 
whom  married  a  Wynn,  and  was  the  ancestress  of  the  family  of 
Lord  Newborough,  which  still  possesses  Maynau  Abbey,  given 
to  her  by  Sir  R.  Clough.  The  second  daughter,  Katherine,  mar- 
ried Roger  Salusbury,  and  received  from  Sir  Richard  the  house 
and  property  of  Bachegraig,  which  afterwards  came  into  the 
possession  of  Mrs.  Thrale,  her  lineal  descendant. 

His  son  Richard  inherited  Plas  Clough,  where  his  descend- 
ants continued  to  reside.  In  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  family  were  represented  by  a  Hugh  Clough,  who 
had  thirteen  children,  one  of  whom,  called  also  Hugh,  was 
Fellow  of  King's  College,  Cambridge,  and  is  buried  there :  he 
was  a  friend  of  Cowper  the  poet,  and  is  said  to  have  been  some- 
thing of  a  poet  himself.  Hugh  died  unmarried ;  but  three  sons 
and  one  daughter  of  the  first  Hugh  married,  and  left  large 
families.  One  son,  Roger,  thirteenth  child  of  Hugh  Clough, 
married  Ann  Jemima  Butler,  a  lady  possessed  of  considerable 
estates  in  Sussex,  to  which  she  was  co-heiress  with  her  sister, 
who  married  Roger  Clough's  elder  brother  Richard.  He  did 
not,  however,  leave  much  to  his  children,  for  he  was  of  a  liberal 
and  profuse  turn,  and  he  had  ten  children,  of  whom  James 
Butler  Clough  was  the  third.  This  son  was  the  first  of  his 
family  to  leave  the  neighbourhood  of  their  old  house  in  Wales. 
He  removed  to  Liverpool,  where  he  settled  and  went  into  busi- 
ness as  a  cotton  merchant,  and  where  his  four  children  were 
born.  When  Arthur  was  about  four  years  old,  his  father  mi- 
grated to  Charleston,  in  the  United  States,  where  he  passed  sev- 
eral years,  and  this  was  the  home  of  Arthur's  childhood  till  he 
went  to  school.  We  give  here  a  few  recollections  furnished  by 
his  sister,  the  next  to  him  in  age  in  the  family,  which  bring 
before  us  the  scenes  in  which  liis  childhood  was  passed,  and 
the  influences  which  even  then  began  to  tell  strongly  upon  him. 

'  The  first  distinct  remembrance,'  she  says,  '  that  I  luive  of 
my  brother  is  of  his  going  with  me  in  a  carriage  to  the  vessel 
which  was  to  take  us  to  America.  This  must  have  been  in  the 
winter  of  1822-23,  wlien  he  was  not  quite  four  years  old.  My 
next  recollection  is  of  our  home  at  Charleston,  a  large,  ugly 


LIFE  AT  CHARLESTON.  ix 

red  brick  house  near  the  sea.  The  lower  storey  was  my  father's 
office,  and  it  was  close  by  a  wharf  where  from  our  windows  we 
could  see  the  vessels  lying  by  and  amuse  ourselves  with  watch- 
ing their  movements. 

*In  the  summer  of  this  year  (1823)  we  went  to  the  North, 
and  stayed  some  time  in  a  boarding-house  at  New  York,  and 
afterwards  with  some  friends  who  lived  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  and  had  a  large  and  pleasant  garden.  It  was  here,  I 
have  heard,  that  Arthur  learned  to  read.  In  the  autumn  we 
returned  to  Charleston,  having  made  the  passage  there  and 
back  by  sea. 

'The  two  following  summers  (1824  and  1825)  we  again 
visited  the  North ;  both  times  we  went  to  New  York,  and  the 
first  year  on  to  Albany  and  Lebanon  Springs,  and  the  second 
time  as  far  as  Newport.  After  our  return  to  Charleston  in 
the  autumn  my  father  was  obliged  to  go  to  England,  and  he 
took  with  him  my  eldest  brother  Charles,  who  was  old  enough 
to  go  to  school.  Arthur  and  I  and  my  youngest  brother  George 
remained  in  the  red  brick  house  at  Charleston  with  my  mother 
and  a  faithful  old  nurse.  My  father  was  absent  eleven  months. 
Then  Arthur  became  my  mother's  constant  companion.  Though 
then  only  just  seveh,  he  was  already  considered  as  the  genius  of 
our  family.  He  was  a  beautiful  boy,  with  soft,  silky,  almost 
black  hair,  and  shining  dark  eyes,  and  a  small  delicate  mouth, 
which  our  old  nurse  was  so  afraid  of  spoiling,  when  he  was  a 
baby,  that  she  insisted  on  getting  a  tiny  spoon  for  his  special 
use. 

'  As  I  said,  Arthur  was  constantly  with  my  mother,  and  she 
poured  out  the  fulness  of  her  heart  on  him.  They  read  much 
together,  histories,  ancient  and  modern,  stories  of  the  Greek 
heroes,  parts  of  Pope's  "  Odyssey  "  and  "  Iliad,"  and  much  out  of 
"Walter  Scott's  novels.  She  talked  to  him  about  England,  and 
he  learnt  to  be  fojid  of  his  own  country,  and  delighted  to  flour- 
ish about  a  little  English  flag  he  had  possessed  himself  of.  He 
also  made  good  progress  in  French.  He  was  sometimes  pas- 
sionate as  a  child,  though  not  easily  roused ;  and  he  was  said 
to  be  very  determined  and  obstinate.  One  trait  1  distinctly 
remember,  that  he  would  always  do  tilings  from  his  own  choice, 
and  not  merely  copy  Avhat  others  were  doing. 

'  In  the  summer  we  went  down  to  Sullivan's  Island,  and  lived 


X  LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH   C LOUGH. 

in  a  sort  of  cottage  built  upon  piles.  Here  we  could  walk  on 
the  shore  and  gather  shells,  and  we  also  had  a  garden.  We 
amused  ourselves  by  watching  the  steamers  and  sailing-vessels 
that  came  over  from  Charleston.  Sometimes  we  had  visits  from 
friends  of  my  father,  often  bringing  over  letters  for  my  mother ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  we  lived  very  quietly,  learning  our  lessons, 
and  looking  forward  joyfully  to  the  time  of  our  father's  return 
from  England.  We  went  back  to  Charleston  in  the  autumn. 
This  was  a  weary  time  for  our  dear  mothei',  who  was  continu- 
ally expecting  and  longing  for  our  father's  return.  We,  too, 
were  always  on  the  watch  for  the  first  sight  of  the  ship  on  the 
bay.  One  November  moi'ning,  while  we  were  at  our  lessons 
with  our  mother,  there  came  a  hasty  ring  at  the  bell.  We 
wanted  to  look  out  and  see  if  visitors  were  coming.  We  were 
not  fond  of  visitors,  and  generally  used  to  run  off  to  our  nurs- 
ery at  sight  of  them,  but  our  mother  would  not  let  us  peep  this 
time ;  we  must  attend  to  our  lessons,  she  said ;  she  was  sure  it 
was  only  a  negro  man  with  a  message.  And  then  the  door 
opened  and  our  father  was  in  the  room,  catching  up  our  mother 
in  his  arms,  for  she  was  nearly  fainting,  while  we  skipped  about 
for  joy,  and  shouted  to  our  mother  that  she  had  called  our 
father  a  negro  man.  Then  came  the  unpacking  of  trunks,  and 
all  the  presents  sent  to  us  by  our  relations  in  England,  and  the 
news  of  our  brother  Charles. 

'After  my  father's  return  it  was  a  very  happy  time  for 
Arthur.  He  still  went  on  reading  history  and  poetry  with  our 
mother.  About  this  time,  1  believe,  he  read  with  her  some  of 
Robertson's  "  Charles  V.,"  and  the  struggle  in  the  Netherlands  in 
Watson's  "  Philip  II." ;  also  the  lives  of  Columbus,  Cortez,  and 
Pizarro.  He  used  also  to  say  the  Latin  grammar  to  my  father  in 
the  early  morning,  and  do  sums  in  the  office,  lying  on  the  piled- 
up  pieces  of  cotton  bagging  which  were  waiting  there  to  be  made 
into  sacks  for  cotton.  Here,  too,  we  used  to  play  and  tumble 
about  upon  the  cotton  heaps.  One  of  our  games  was  playing 
at  the  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  in  which  I  remember  Arthur 
was  always  Ernest,  because  Ernest  liked  reading  and  knew  so 
much.  In  hot  weather,  Arthur  used  to  lie  on  his  bed  in  the 
afternoon,  reading  the  "  Universal  Traveller "  and  "  Captain 
Cook's  Travels,"  in  the  purchase  of  which  he  had  one  day  ex- 
pended all  his  savings.     They  were  both  full  of  pictures,  and  he 


CHILDHOOD.  xi 

used  to  tell  us  that  he  dreawit  of  the  places  he  had  been  reading 
about.  He  also  used  to  go  out  with  my  father  when  he  had 
business  to  do  on  the  wharves  and  on  board  the  ships,  and  sat 
with  him  and  my  mother  in  the  evenings  and  saw  the  occa- 
sional visitors  who  came  in,  such  as  the  captains  of  the  mer- 
chantmen with  whom  he  had  dealings,  and  heard  their  stories. 

'  In  the  summer  of  1827,  we  again  went  to  Sullivan's  Island. 
It  was  a  pleasant  time,  especially  as  we  now  had  our  father  with 
us.  We  lived  in  a  large  rambling  house,  with  a  pleasant  veran- 
dah in  which  we  had  a  swing,  and  a  large  garden  fenced  in  with 
a  hedge  of  yuccas,  called  there  Spanish  bayonets.  The  house 
had  once  been  an  inn,  and  was  built  in  two  parts.  My  father 
and  mother  slept  in  a  room  over  a  great  billiard-room,  only 
reached  by  an  open  staircase  or  by  a  little  open  path  across  a 
roof;  and  when  great  storms  arose,  as  often  happened,  my 
father  used  to  carry  us  in  his  arms,  back  over  the  open  space 
into  the  more  protected  part  of  the  house. 

*  The  walks  on  the  sand  were  delightful  to  us  children.  It 
was  the  finest  white  soft  sand  without  a  vestige  of  shingle  on 
which  we  used  to  play ;  and  I  remember  that  Arthur  even  then 
was  too  fastidious  to  take  off  his  shoes  and  stockings  and  pad- 
dle about  as  we  did.  The  whole  island  was  like  a  great  sand- 
bank, with  little  growing  naturally  on  it  but  a  few  palmettos 
and  low  woods  of  myrtle.  Our  walks  along  the  sea  often  took 
us  as  far  as  Fort  Moultrie,  which  in  our  time  was  a  red  brick 
fort  w'ith  a  dry  ditch  round  it,  without  the  earthworks  which 
have  since  become  famous.  A  high  bank  of  sand  lay  between 
it  and  the  sea ;  and,  after  crossing  this  we  came  to  a  few  deso- 
late houses  half  buried  in  sand,  which  here  lay  in  great  heaps. 
Here  and  there  grew  a  few  palmettos,  which  the  high  tides  or 
autumn  storms  too  often  carried  away,  and  when  we  came  to 
look  for  a  favourite  tree,  to  our  great  grief,  we  found  it  gone. 
These  sands  were  the  haunt  of  innumerable  curlews,  whose 
wild  screams  seemed  to  make  the  shore  more  lonely  still.  A 
beautiful  grove  of  myi-tles  rose  farther  along  the  shore. 

'The  other  end  of  the  island  was  the  inhabited  part.  There 
was  the  pier,  busy  with  its  arrivals  and  dep.artures  of  steamers, 
and  sailing  boats  going  to  and  fro  between  the  island  and  the 
city,  and  covered  with  numerous  carriages,  old-fashioned  gigs  and 
waggons,  mostly  with  hoods  or  some  sort  of  protection  from  the 


xii  LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

sun,  and  a  seat  for  the  negro  boy  behind.  The  bay  was  gay, 
too,  with  many  fishing-boats  belonging  to  the  gentlemen  who 
had  a  fishing  club,  which  met  at  a  house  among  the  myrtles ; 
and  many  rowing-boats  also,  chiefly  rowed  by  negroes.  Arthur 
often  went  out  with  my  father  on  the  water. 

*  Six  miles  off  lay  Charleston,  on  a  peninsula  between  its  two 
rivers,  the  Cooper  and  the  Ashley.  The  first  sight  of  it  showed 
a  long  line  of  wharves  made  of  palmetto  logs  fastened  together 
into  a  sort  of  wall,  stretching  perhaps  half  a  mile  along  the  bay, 
and  lined  with  the  ships  and  smaller  craft  that  frequented  the 
port.  As  you  approached  from  the  water  you  heard  the  songs 
of  the  negroes  at  work  on  the  vessels.  Beyond  the  wharves 
was  a  battery  or  public  walk,  supported  against  the  sea  by  a 
substantial  very  white  wall  formed  of  oyster  shells  beaten  fine 
and  hard.  This  species  of  pier  extended  nearly  a  mile  along 
the  sea,  and  was  a  favourite  resort  both  for  walking  and  driving 
in  the  summer.  It  was  all  roughly  done,  as  most  things  were 
in  the  South,  but  the  sunshine  and  clear  skies  made  it  bright 
and  cheerful.  The  city  was  not  regularly  built  like  the  North- 
ern towns.  In  the  lower  part  indeed  the  houses  were  mostly 
built  close  together  in  rows ;  but  in  the  upper  part,  where  the 
wealthier  people  lived,  it  was  full  of  villas  mostly  standing  in 
gardens,  all  built  with  verandahs,  and  many  with  two,  an  upper 
and  a  lower  one.  In  the  gardens  grew  many  flowering  trees, 
such  as  the  abnond,  occasionally  the  orange,  the  fringe  tree,  a 
gay  shrub  with  a  very  abundant  white  flower,  and  the  fig ;  and 
these  hung  over  the  garden  walls  into  the  streets.  The  streets, 
too,  which  were  for  the  most  part  unpaved,  were  often  planted 
with  trees  for  the  sake  of  shade.  Here  and  there  one  came  on 
a  large  old-fashioned  mansion,  that  at  once  showed  it  belonged 
to  the  times  before  the  Revolution. 

'  From  Charleston,  Sullivan's  Island  was  to  be  seen  in  the  dis- 
tance, beyond  the  battery,  and  on  the  right  James  Island,  marked 
by  a  long  low  line  of  wood.  Between  these  two  islands,  com- 
manding tlie  entrance.  Fort  Sumter  was  afterwards  built,  not 
far  from  James  Island.  On  the  left  was  Fort  Pinckney,  built  on 
a  small  island  or  sandbank  near  the  city. 

♦  In  1828  we  all  returned  to  England.  We  sailed  from 
Charleston  early  in  June.  We  greatly  enjoyed  the  voyage; 
being  the  only  children  on  board,  we  were  exceedingly  petted, 


CHARACTERS  OF  HIS  PARENTS.  xiii 

and  the  unusual  sights  impressed  our  imagination.  I  remember 
very  well  the  sea-weed  floating  in  quantities  on  the  Gulf  Stream  ; 
also  we  saw  a  waterspout,  and  grander  still  —  but  happily  for 
us  only  in  the  distance  —  an  iceberg.  When  at  last  we  came  in 
sight  of  the.  South  of  Ireland,  we  were  met  by  the  Irish  fisher- 
men coming  out  to  sell  us  their  fresh  fish.  Then  came  the  slow 
creeping  up  the  Channel  against  a  head-wind,  and  then  a  calm, 
till  one  niglit  the  wind  sprang  up,  and  in  the  morning  we  found 
ourselves  in  Liverpool. 

'  We  then  went  to  stay  with  an  uncle  in  the  country,  where 
we  met  my  eldest  brother,  and  found  ourselves  among  nine  or 
ten  cousins  of  different  ages.  This  was  quite  a  new  experience 
to  us.  Arthur  could  not  enter  into  the  boys'  rough  games  and 
amusements,  and  missed  the  constant  companionship  of  his 
father.  We  travelled  however  for  some  months  from  one  rela- 
tion's house  to  another,  and  by  degrees  Arthur  became  more 
sociable. 

'  In  October  Arthur  went  to  school  at  Chester,  and  my  father, 
mother,  George  and  I  sailed  again  to  Charleston.  This  was 
practically  the  end  of  Arthur's  childhood. 

'  Our  father  was  most  affectionate,  loving,  and  watchful  over 
his  children.  It  was  from  him  that  we  received  many  of  the 
smaller  cares  which  usually  come  from  a  mother,  especially  on 
the  long  voyages,  during  which  my  mother  suffered  greatly, 
when  he  took  the  care  of  us  almost  entirely,  and  comforted  us 
in  rough  storms.  This  watchfulness  and  tender  care  for  the 
feelings  of  others  Arthur  inherited  in  the  largest  degree  from 
his  fathei*.  My  father  was  very  lively,  and  fond  of  society  and 
amusement,  lie  liked  life  and  change,  and  did  not  care  nmch 
for  reading,  lie  had  a  high  sense  of  honor,  but  was  venture- 
some and  over  sanguine,  and  when  once  his  mind  was  set  on 
anything,  he  was  not  to  be  turned  from  it,  nor  was  he  given  to 
counting  consequences.  My  mother  was  very  different.  She 
cared  little  for  general  society,  but  had  a  few  fast  friends  to 
whom  she  was  strongly  attached.  In  her  tastes  and  habits  she 
was  rigidly  simple;  this  harmonised  with  the  stern  integrity 
which  was  the  foundation  of  her  character.  She  was  very  fond 
of  reading,  especially  works  on  religious  subjects,  poetry,  and 
history ;  and  she  greatly  enjoyed  beautiful  scenery,  and  visiting 
places  which  had  any  historical  associations.     She  loved  what 


xiv         LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH   C LOUGH. 

was  grand,  noble,  and  enterprising,  and  was  truly  religious.  She 
early  taught  us  about  God  and  duty,  and  having  such  a  loving 
earthly  father,  it  was  not  difficult  to  look  up  to  a  Heavenly  one. 
She  loved  to  dwell  on  all  that  was  stern  and  noble.  Leonidas 
at  TherniopyljB,  and  Epaminondas  accepting  the  lowliest  offices 
and  doing  them  as  a  duty  to  his  country;  the  sufferings  of  the 
martyrs,  and  the  struggles  of  the  Protestants,  were  among  her 
favourite  subjects.  There  was  an  enthusiasm  about  her  that 
took  hold  of  us,  and  made  us  see  vividly  the  things  that  she 
taught  us.  But  with  this  love  of  the  terrible  and  grand  she 
was  altogether  a  woman  clinging  to  and  leaning  on  our  father. 
When  he  left  us  Arthur  became  her  pet  and  her  companion.  I 
cannot  but  think  that  her  love,  her  influence,  and  her  teaching 
had  much  to  do  with  forming  his  character.' 

From  Charleston,  as  appears  from  what  precedes,  Arthur 
Cloiigh  went,  in  November  1828,  to  school  at  Chester ;  and,  in 
the  summer  of  1829,  he  was  removed  to  Kugby.  His  eldest 
brother,  Charles,  was  with  him  at  both  schools,  but  Charles  left 
Rugby  before  him,  as  early  as  the  year  1831. 

During  these  first  years  he  was  a  somewhat  grave  and  studi- 
ous boy,  not  without  tastes  for  walking,  shooting,  and  sight- 
seeing, but  with  little  capacity  for  play  and  for  mixing  with 
others,  and  with  more  of  varied  intellectual  interest  than  usual 
with  boys.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  fondness  for  drawing ;  and 
he  was  perpetually  writing  verses,  not  remarkable  except  for  a 
certain  ease  of  expression  and  for  a  power  of  running  on,  not 
common  at  that  early  age.  The  influence  of  Dr.  Arnold  on  his 
character  was  powerful,  and  continued  to  increase.  We  find 
him  mounting  rapidly  through  the  lower  forms  and  beginning 
to  get  prizes.  It  is  also  clear  that,  besides  this  application  to 
his  actual  work,  he  exerted  himself  with  great  energy  in  the 
endeavour  to  improve  the  school  and  to  influence  his  companions 
for  good.  This  remarkable  interest  in  Rugby  matters  is  partly 
to  be  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  had  no  near  home  interests 
to  distract  his  attention;  partly  it  must  be  referred  to  that 
strong  sense  of  moral  responsibility  which  Arnold,  first  among 
schoolmasters,  seems  to  have  impressed  upon  his  pupils. 

Too  early  a  strain  seems  to  have  been  put  upon  him,  espe- 
cially as  he  had  not  till  1836  any  home  to  go  to  in  his  holidays. 
Of  kind  and  affectionate  relations,  who  received  him  hospitably, 


SCHOOL  LIFE  AT  RUGBY.  XV 

there  were  plenty.  His  uncles,  the  Rev.  Charles  Clough,  then 
Vicar  of  Mold,  and  the  Rev.  Alfred  Clough,  then  Fellow  of 
Jesus  College,  Oxford,  always  showed  him  the  greatest  kind- 
ness; and  he  had  a  large  connection  of  friendly  cousins,  his 
visits  among  whom  gave  him  many  opportunities  for  journeys 
into  Yorkshire  and  in  different  parts  of  Wales.  How  lively  a 
recollection  he  retained  of  this  period  of  his  life,  and  of  the  in- 
cidents of  his  holiday  excursions,  may  be  gatliei-ed  from  the  pic- 
ture he  has  painted  in  '  Primitiae,'  the  first  tale  of  '  Mari  Magno.* 
He  did  thus  enjoy  much  variety,  but  he  lacked  rest ;  and  his 
family  instincts  and  affections  were  so  strong  that  he  evidently 
suffered  gi'eatly  through  his  separation  from  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  him.  That  a  great  strain  and  sense  of  repression  were 
upon  him  at  this  time  is  clear  from  a  letter  written  after  the 
interval  of  twenty  years.  The  self-reliance  and  self-adaptation 
which  most  men  acquire  in  mature  life  were,  by  the  ckcum- 
stances  of  his  family,  forced  upon  him  in  his  early  youth. 

In  July,  1831,  his  father  and  mother,  sister,  and  youngest 
brother,  came  over  for  a  visit  from  Charleston,  and  he  spent  his 
holidays  with  them ;  after  which  he  went  back  to  school,  this 
time  without  his  eldest  brother.  His  sister  remembers  how 
their  stay  was  unexpectedly  prolonged  till  the  beginning  of  the 
following  Christmas  holidays  by  a  delay  in  finding  a  ship,  and 
how  Arthur,  hearing  this,  rushed  off  to  Liverpool  to  spend  their 
last  two  or  three  days  together,  bringing  his  new  prize,  John- 
son's 'Lives  of  the  Poets,'  in  his  bag,  to  show  his  mother,  to 
whom  it  was  his  greatest  enjoyment  to  pour  himself  out.  His 
mother  suffered  greatly  from  the  voyages,  and  from  the  uproot- 
ing consequent  on  such  great  changes ;  and  she  resolved  never 
again  to  come  to  England  till  it  should  be  her  home.  His  father 
paid  one  more  visit  to  England,  alone,  in  1833,  when  he  took 
his  three  sons  to  London  and  over  to  Paris. 

At  school  Arthiir  continued  to  prosper.  He  gained  a  scholar- 
ship, open  to  the  whole  school  under  fourteen,  the  only  one 
which  then  existed.  He  was  at  the  head  of  the  fifth  form  at 
fifteen ;  and  as  sixteen  was  the  earliest  age  at  which  boys  were 
then  admitted  into  the  sixth,  he  had  to  wait  a  whole  year  for 
this.  It  was  probably  a  misfortune  to  him  that  this  rule  pre- 
vented his  advance  through  the  school,  and  his  proceeding  at 
once  to  Oxford,  as  he  was  much  exhausted  by  the  intense  inter- 


xvi         LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  CLOUGH. 

est  and  labour  he  expended  on  his  moral  work  among  the  boys, 
and  also  on  the  '  Rugby  Magazine.'  This  was  a  periodical  which 
absorbed  much  of  the  writing  powers  of  the  cleverer  boys,  and 
to  which  he  contributed  constantly,  chiefly  poetry.  For  a  con- 
siderable time  he  was  also  its  editor.  Besides  this  he  took 
an  active  part  in  some  of  the  school  games,  and  his  name  is 
handed  down  in  William  Arnold's  '  Rules  of  Football '  as  the 
best  goal-keeper  on  record.  He  was  also  one  of  the  first  swim- 
mers in  the  school,  and  was  a  veiy  good  runner,  in  spite  of  a 
weakness  in  his  ankles,  which  prevented  his  attaining  profi- 
ciency in  many  games.  He  made  at  this  time  several  close  and 
intimate  friendships,  and  gained  a  very  high  character  among 
his  schoolfellows  in  general ;  a  sign  of  which  is  given  by  the 
story  told  by  some  of  them  at  the  time,  that,  when  he  left  school 
for  college,  almost  every  boy  at  Rugby  contrived  to  shake  hands 
with  him  at  parting.  '  The  grace  of  his  character  when  he  was 
a  boy,'  says  one  of  his  friends,  '  can  be  estimated  by  nothing  so 
well  as  by  the  force  with  which  he  attracted  the  attachment  of 
some,  and  the  jealousy  or  encroachment  of  others.'  Another 
says  :  '  I  always  said  that  his  face  was  quite  another  thing  from 
any  of  those  of  our  own  generation ;  the  mixture  of  width  and 
sweetness  was  then  quite  as  marked  as  it  was  later.'  Dr.  Arnold 
also  regarded  him  with  increasing  interest  and  satisfaction ;  and, 
as  another  friend  describes,  at  the  yearly  speeches,  in  the  last 
year  of  Clough's  residence,  he  broke  the  rule  of  silence  to  which 
he  almost  invariably  adhered  in  the  delivery  of  prizes,  and  con- 
gratulated him  on  having  gained  every  honour  which  Rugby 
could  bestow,  and  done  the  highest  credit  to  his  school  at  the 
University.  This  was  in  allusion  to  his  having  just  gained  the 
Balliol  scholarship,  then  and  now  the  highest  honour  which  a 
schoolboy  could  obtain.  Some  months  previous  to  this  (in  July 
1836),  his  father,  mother,  and  sister  came  over  from  America, 
to  settle  in  Liverpool;  and  thenceforth  Arthur  was  no  longer 
without  a  home  in  England.  His  sister  describes  him  as  she 
then  saw  him,  after  an  interval  of  five  years,  as  a  blooming  youth 
of  seventeen,  with  an  abundance  of  dark  soft  hair,  a  fresh  com- 
plexion, much  colour,  and  shining  eyes  full  of  animation. 
Though  kind  and  affectionate  as  ever  in  his  family,  they  now 
found  him  changed  in  mind ;  eager  and  interested  in  many 
fresh  subjects;   full  of  growing  force,  and  of  the  fervour  of 


UNDERGRADUATE  LIFE  AT  OXFORD,    xvii 

youthful  conviction.  With  boyish  veliemence  he  stood  forth  on 
all  occasions  as  the  devoted  disciple  of  his  beloved  master,  Dr. 
Arnold,  and  the  exponent  of  his  various  theories  of  church  gov- 
ernment and  politics. 

In  November  1836  he  had  gained  the  Balliol  scholarship,  and 
the  October  following  he  went  into  residence  at  Oxford.  There 
he  soon  made  friends  with  some  of  those  with  whom  he  became 
afterwards  intimate  —  Mr.  Ward,  Sir  B.  Brodie,  and  Professor 
Jowett ;  —  a  little  later,  with  Dr.  Temple  and  Professor  Shairp ; 
and,  later  still,  with  Mr.  T.  Walrond  and  the  two  eldest  sons  of 
Dr.  Arnold,  whose  names  frequently  occur  in  his  correspondence. 

Now  came  the  time  which  we  regard  as  essentially  the  turn- 
ing-point of  his  life.  lie  began  his  residence  at  Oxford  when 
the  University  was  stirred  to  its  depth  by  the  great  Tractarian 
movement.  Dr.  Newman  was  in  the  fulness  of  his  popularity, 
preaching  at  St.  Mary's,  and  in  pamphlets,  reviews,  and  verses 
continually  pouring  forth  eloquent  appeals  to  every  kind  of 
motive  that  could  influence  men's  minds.  Mr.  Ward,  one  of 
Clough's  first  friends  at  Oxford,  was,  as  is  well  known,  among 
the  foremost  of  the  party ;  and  thus,  at  the  very  entrance  into 
his  new  life,  he  was  at  once  thrown  into  the  very  vortex  of  dis- 
cussion. Something  of  the  same  fate  which,  as  a  young  boy, 
forced  on  him  a  too  early  self-reliance  and  independence  in 
matters  of  conduct,  followed  him  here ;  and  the  accident  of  his 
passing  from  the  Rugby  of  Arnold  to  the  Oxford  of  Newman  and 
Ward,  drove  him,  while  he  ought  to  have  been  devoting  himself 
to  the  ordinary  work  of  an  undergraduate  reading  for  honours, 
and  before  he  had  attained  his  full  intellectual  development,  to 
examine  and  in  some  degree  draw  conclusions  concerning  the 
deepest  subjects  that  can  occupy  the  human  mind.  This  must 
be  felt  to  have  been  a  serious  disadvantage.  As  his  friend  Mr. 
Ward  himself  says  with  much  feeling,  when  looking  back  on 
that  time  after  many  years, '  What  was  before  all  things  to  have 
been  desired  for  him,  was  that  during  his  undergraduate  career 
he  should  have  given  himself  up  tlioroughly  to  his  classical  and 
mathematical  studies,  and  kept  himself  from  plunging  prema- 
turely into  the  theological  controversies  then  so  rife  at  Oxford. 
Thus  he  would  have  been  saved  from  all  injury  to  the  gradual 
and  healthy  growth  of  his  mind  and  cliaracter.  It  is  my  own 
very  strong  impression  that,  had  this  been  permitted,  his  future 


xviii       LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH   C LOUGH. 

course  of  thought  and  speculation  would  have  been  essentially 
different  from  what  it  was  in  fact.  Drawn  as  it  were  peremp- 
torily, when  a  young  man  just  coming  up  to  college,  into  a  de- 
cision upon  questions  the  most  important  that  can  occupy  the 
mind,  the  result  was  not  surprising.  After  this  premature  forc- 
ing of  Clough's  mind,  there  came  a  reaction.  His  intellectual 
perplexity  preyed  heavily  on  his  spirits,  and  grievously  inter- 
fered with  his  studies.' 

Another  cause,  also,  which  rendered  him  less  able  to  endure 
the  various  demands  made  upon  him  in  his  new  life  was,  that 
the  strain  of  his  school-work  and  interests  at  Rugby  had  evi- 
dently considerably  exhausted  him. 

Any  reader  of  that  marvellously  vivid  book,  the  '  Apologia ' 
of  Dr.  Newman,  will  understand  the  trouble  of  spirit  into  which 
an  impressionable  nature  must  have  been  thrown  by  the  storm 
that  was  raging  round  him,  and  by  contact  with  such  powerful 
leaders.  The  appeals  made  at  once  to  the  imagination,  to  all 
the  tenderer  parts  of  human  nature,  and  to  the  reason,  com- 
bined to  render  this  struggle  peculiarly  intense.  For  a  time 
Clough  was  carried  away,  how  far  it  is  impossible  with  any 
approach  to  certainty  to  say,  in  the  direction  of  the  new 
opinions.  He  himself  said  afterwards,  that  for  two  years  he 
had  been  '  like  a  straw  drawn  up  the  draught  of  a  chimney.' 
Yet  in  his  mind  the  disturbance  was  but  temporary.  His  own 
nature  before  long  reasserted  itself,  proving,  by  the  strength  of 
its  reaction,  how  wholly  impossible  it  was  for  such  a  character 
to  accept  any  merely  external  system  of  authority.  Still,  when 
the  toi'rent  had  subsided,  he  found  that  not  only  had  it  swept 
away  the  new  views  which  had  been  presented  to  him  by  the 
leaders  of  the  Romanising  movement,  but  also  that  it  had 
shaken  the  whole  foundations  of  his  early  faith,  and  had  forced 
him  to  rely  upon  his  own  endeavours  in  the  search  after  that 
truth  which  he  still  firmly  believed  in. 

This  spirit  of  doubt  and  struggle,  yet  of  unshaken  assurance 
in  tlie  final  conquest  of  truth  and  good,  comes  out  strongly  in 
the  poems  written  about  this  time,  and  contrasts  markedly 
with  the  boyish  effusions  of  the  Rugby  period.  It  is  this  which 
forms  the  very  essence  of  the  scepticism  of  which  he  is  accused, 
the  truth  of  which  cliarge,  in  a  certain  sense,  we  do  not  attempt 
to  deny  —  nay,  we  believe  that  in  this  quality  of  mind  lay  his 


TIME   OF  GROWTH  AND   CHANGE.         xix 

chief  power  of  helping  his  generation.  But  his  scepticism  was 
of  no  mere  negative  quality  —  not  a  mere  rejection  of  tradition 
and  denial  of  authority,  but  was  the  expression  of  a  pure  rever- 
ence for  the  inner  light  of  the  spirit,  and  of  entire  submission 
to  its  guidance.  It  was  the  loyalty  to  truth  as  the  supreme 
good  of  the  intellect,  and  as  the  only  sure  foundation  of  moral 
character. 

He  was  absolutely  truthful  towards  his  own  soul.  The 
experiences  he  had  gone  through  forced  him  to  look  religious 
questions  full  in  the  face,  and  he  could  no  longer  take  any  dog- 
matic teaching  on  trust.  He  ignored  no  difficulties,  he  accepted 
nothing  because  it  was  pleasant  —  he  could  retain  faith  in 
nothing  but  his  own  soul.  But  that  he  did  retain  this  faith  — 
faith  in  the  intuitions  which  he  regarded  as  revelations  of  God 
to  him,  in  absolute  faithfulness  to  duty,  strict  adherence  to 
intellectual  and  moral  truthfulness,  single-minded  practice  of 
all  social  and  domestic  virtues  —  is  not  only  true  of  his  out- 
ward life,  but  is  shown,  as  far  as  concerns  his  moral  and  in- 
tellectual convictions,  even  in  the  poems  which  most  strongly 
testify  to  the  struggle  and  the  darkness  in  which  he  often  found 
himself.  In  illustration  of  this  point  we  may  mention  in  par- 
ticular the  'Summum  Pulchrum,'  'Qui  laborat  orat,'  and  the 
•  New  Sinai.'  The  often-quoted  lines  in  '  In  Memoriam  '  might 
almost  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  for  him :  — 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pare  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

Such  scepticism  —  scepticism  which  consists  in  revei'ent 
waiting  for  light  not  yet  given,  in  respect  for  the  truth  so 
absolute,  that  nothing  doubtful  can  be  accepted  as  truth  because 
it  is  pleasant  to  the  soul  —  was  his  from  this  time  forth  to  the 
end  of  his  life.  Some  truths  he  doubtless  conceived  himself  to 
have  learnt  to  know,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  but  his  attitude 
was  always  chiefly  that  of  a  learner.  The  best  key  for  those 
who  care  to  know  his  later  thought  is  to  be  found  in  the  frag- 
ment on  the  '  Religious  Tradition  '  contained  in  the  present 
volume.  But  the  scepticism  which  assumes  a  negative  position 
from  intellectual  pleasure  in  destructive  arguments,  which  does 
not  feel  the  want  of  spiritual  support,  or  realise  the  existence  of 
spiritual  truth,  which  mocks  at  the  grief  of  others,  and  refuses 


XX  LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH   C LOUGH. 

to  accept  their  honest  experiences  as  real,  was  never  his.  lie 
never  denied  the  reality  of  much  that  he  himself  could  not  use 
as  spiritual  nutriment.  He  believed  that  God  spoke  differently 
to  different  ages  and  different  minds.  Not  therefore  could  he 
lay  aside  his  own  duty  of  seeking  and  waiting.  Through  good 
report  and  through  evil  report,  this  he  felt  to  be  his  own  per- 
sonal duty,  and  from  it  he  never  flinched. 

To  return  to  Clough's  early  days.  It  would  not,  we  think, 
be  true  to  say  that  he  abandoned  all  his  early  belief ;  he  still, 
no  doubt,  preserved  much  of  his  old  feeling,  and  was  in  no 
sense  hostile  to  existing  institutions ;  but  certainty  as  to  any- 
thing resting  on  personal  or  traditional  authority  was  gone 
for  him. 

The  result  of  this  disturbance  of  mind  was  naturally  to  dis- 
tract his  attention  from  his  immediate  studies,  and  to  make  his 
labour  less  productive.  Yet  he  did  read  hard,  even  more  so, 
pei'haps,  than  most  men  of  his  time;  and  one  of  his  friends 
records  that  the  only  bet  he  ever  remembers  making  in  his  life 
was  seven  to  one  that  Clough  would  get  a  first.  His  habits  are 
said  to  have  been  at  this  time  of  Spartan  simplicity :  he  had 
very  cold  rooms  in  Balliol  on  the  ground  floor,  in  which  he 
passed  a  whole  winter  without  a  fire ;  and  he  used  to  say  that, 
now  that  he  was  working  in  good  earnest,  this  was  an  excellent 
plan  for  keeping  out  visitors,  as  nobody  else  could  stand  it  for 
more  than  a  few  minutes.  He  disclosed  but  little  to  any  one  of 
the  mental  struggle  within  him,  but  his  family  were  aware  that 
some  great  change  was  going, on  in  him,  and  were  anxious  about 
his  health,  which  evidently  suffered ;  one  sign  of  which  was  tlie 
falling  off  of  his  thick  brown  hair.  He  is  described  by  his 
friends  at  this  time  as  '  a  most  noble-looking  youth.'  One  of 
them  says,  '  I  remember  well  the  first  time  I  saw  him,  just  after 
he  got  the  Balliol.  1  had  jio  acquaintance  with  him  for  years 
afterwards,  but  I  never  lost  the  impression  of  the  beautiful  eyes 
which  I  saw  opposite  to  me  at  dinner  in  Balliol  Hall.'  He  had, 
as  we  are  told,  a  very  high  reputation  as  an  undergraduate ; 
and  among  his  contemporaries  and  those  immediately  succeed- 
ing him,  many  were  found  to  say  that  they  owed  more  to  liim 
than  to  any  other  man.  We  quote,  again,  some  passages  from 
the  affectionate  I'emenibrances  of  Mr.  Ward :  '  Certainly  I  hardly 
mot  any  one  during  my  whole  Oxford  life  to  whom  I  was  so 


MR.    WARD'S  RECOLLECTIONS.  xxi 

strongly  drawn.  Among  the  many  qualities  which  so  greatly 
attracted  me  were  his  unusual  conscientiousness  and  high- 
mindedness  and  public  spirit.  As  regarded  himself,  his  main 
desire  (so  far  as  I  could  see)  was  to  do  what  he  felt  to  be  right; 
and  as  regarded  others,  to  stand  up  for  the  cause  of  God  and  of 
right  principle.  This  latter  view  —  the  duty  of  making  a  stand 
in  society  for  good  principles  —  was  one  especial  characteristic 
of  Dr.  Arnold's  pupils  Many  think  that  he  impressed  it  on 
them  too  prominently,  so  as  to  expose  them  to  a  real  danger  of 
becoming  priggish  and  self-sufficient;  but  certainly  I  never  saw 
in  Clough  the  faintest  trace  of  such  qualities  as  these.  Closely 
connected  with  this  were  his  unselfishness  and  unAvorldliness. 
The  notion  of  preparing  himself  for  success  in  a  worldly  career 
was  so  far  from  prominent  in  his  mind,  that  he  might  with 
some  plausibility  have  been  accused  of  not  thinking  about  it 
enough.  But  his  one  idea  seemed  always  to  be  that  he  should 
to-day  do  to-day's  duty,  and  for  the  rest  leave  himself  in  God's 
hands.  And  as  to  unselfishness,  his  self-abnegating  consideration 
for  others  may  be  called,  in  the  best  sense,  feminine.  Then  his 
singular  sweetness  of  disposition:  I  doubt  if  I  have  anywhere 
seen  this  exceeded.  I  have  known  him  under  circumstances 
which  must  have  given  liim  great  vexation  and  annoyance,  but 
I  never  saw  in  him  the  faintest  approach  to  Joss  of  temper. 

'Intellectually  he  struck  me  as  possessing  very  unusual  inde- 
pendence, and  (if  I  may  so  express  myself)  straightforwardness 
of  thought.  He  was  never  taken  in  with  shams,  pretences,  and 
traditions,  but  saw  at  once  below  the  surface.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  perhaps  less  remarkable  for  logical  consecutive- 
ness.  But  at  that  time  the  Oriel  fellowship  was  universally 
accounted,  I  think,  the  best  test  in  Oxford  of  intellectual  power ; 
and  he  obtained  that  fellowsliip  the  first  time  he  stood  for  it. 
I  took  pai't  myself  in  examining  him  for  the  Balliol  fellowship, 
and  I  do  not  remembei*  to  have  seen  so  much  power  displayed 
in  any  examination  witliin  my  experience. 

'As  regards  his  ordinary  habits  at  the  time,  since  I  was  a 
Fellow  and  he  only  an  undergraduate,  T  cannot  speak  with  per- 
fect certainty ;  but  my  impression  is  that  from  the  first  he  very 
much  abstained  from  general  society.  This  was  undoubtedly 
the  case  at  a  later  period,  when  his  intellectual  perplexity  had 
hold  of  him  ;  but  I  think  it  began  earliei*.     I  remember  in  par- 


xxii        LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

ticular  that  every  day  he  used  to  return  to  his  solitary  room 
immediately  after  dinner;  and  when  I  asked  him  the  reason  for 
this,  he  told  me  that  his  pecuniary  circumstances  incapacitated 
him  from  giving  wine  parties,  and  that  therefore  he  did  not 
like  to  wine  with  others.  I  think  also  there  was  a  certain  fas- 
tidiousness of  taste  and  judgment  about  him  which  prevented 
him  from  enjoying  general  society. 

'  The  opinion  both  of  tutors  and  undergraduates  undoubtedly 
was,  that  there  was  an  unusual  degree  of  reserve  in  his  demean- 
our which  pi'evented  them  from  understanding  him ;  but  they 
all  —  certainly  all  the  tutors,  and  I  believe  all  the  undergradu- 
ates—  greatly  appreciated  his  singularly  high  principle  and  his 
exemplary  spotlessness  of  life.' 

We  give  another  sketch  of  him  during  his  undergraduate 
period,  furnished  by  Principal  Shairp.  '  It  was  towards  the  end 
of  1840  that  I  first  saw  A.  H.  Clough.  As  a  freshman  I  looked 
with  respect  approaching  to  awe  on  the  senior  scholar  of  whom 
I  had  heard  so  much,  stepping  out  on  Sunday  mornings  to  read 
the  first  lesson  in  Balliol  Chapel.  How  clearly  I  remember  his 
massive  figure,  in  scholar's  surplice,  standing  before  the  brass 
eagle,  and  his  deep  feeling  tones  as  he  read  some  chapter  from 
the  Hebrew  prophets.  At  that  time  he  was  the  eldest  and  every 
way  the  first  of  a  remarkable  band  of  scholars.  The  younger 
undergraduates  felt  towards  him  a  distant  reverence,  as  a  lofty 
and  profound  nature  quite  above  themselves  whom  they  could 
not  quite  make  out,  but  who  was  sure  to  be  some  day  great. 
Profaner  spirits,  nearer  his  own  standing,  sometimes  made  a 
joke  of  his  then  exceeding  silence  and  reserve,  and  of  his  un- 
worldly ways.  But  as  he  was  out  of  college  rooms  and  reading 
hard  for  his  degree,  we  freshmen  only  heard  of  his  reputation 
from  a  distance,  and  seldom  came  in  contact  with  him. 

'It  must  have  been  early  in  1841  that  he  first  asked  me  to 
breakfast  with  him.  He  was  then  living  in  a  small  cottage,  or 
cottage-like  house,  standing  by  itself,  a  little  apart  from  Holy- 
well. There  he  used  to  bathe  every  morning  all  tlie  winter 
through,  in  the  cold  Holywell  baths,  and  read  liard  all  day. 
There  were  one  or  two  other  freshmen  there  at  breakfast.  If  I 
remember  right,  none  of  the  party  were  very  talkative. 

*I  have  heard  that  about' that  time  lie  wrote  one  day  in  fun 
an  oracle,  in  the  style  of  Herodotus,  to  his  bi'other  scholar,  who 


PRINCIPAL   SHAIRP'S  RECOLLECTIONS,     xxiii 

was  reading  like  himself  for  the  Schools.     The  Greek  I  forget ; 
the  translation  he  sent  with  it  ran  something  like  this :  — 

'  Whereas of  Lancashire 

Shall  iu  the  Schools  preside, 
And  Wynter  i  to  St.  Mary's  go 

With  the  pokers  by  his  side ; 
Two  scholars  there  of  Balliol, 

Who  on  double  firsts  had  reckoned, 
Between  them  two  shall  with  much  ado 

Scarce  get  a  double  second. 

'  This  turned  out  only  too  true  an  oracle.  Since  the  begin- 
ning of  class-lists,  the  succession  of  firsts  among  Balliol  scholars 
was  unbroken.  And  few  Balliol  scholars  had  equalled,  none 
ever  surpassed,  Clough's  reputation.  I  well  remember  going, 
towards  the  end  of  May  or  beginning  of  June,  with  one  of  the 
scholars  of  my  own  standing,  to  the  School  quadrangle  to  hear 
the  class-list  read  out,  the  first  time  I  had  heard  it.  What  was 
our  surprise  when  the  list  was  read  out,  and  neither  of  our 
scholars  appeared  in  the  first  class.  We  rushed  to  Balliol  and 
announced  it  to  the  younger  Fellows  who  were  standing  at  their 
open  window.  Many  causes  were  assigned  at  the  time  for  this 
failure  —  some  in  the  examiners,  some  in  Clough's  then  state 
of  spirits ;  but  whatever  the  cause,  I  think  the  result  for  some 
years  shook  faith  in  firsts  among  Clough's  contemporaries.  It 
made  a  great  impression  upon  others ;  on  himself  I  fancy  it  made 
but  little.  I  never  heard  him  afterwards  allude  to  it  a.s  a  thing 
of  any  consequence.  He  once  told  me  he  was  sick  of  conten- 
tions for  prizes  and  honours  before  he  left  Rugby.' 

Thus  he  missed  his  first  class,  of  which  perhaps  the  worst  re- 
sult was  that  for  the  time  it  seriously  distressed  his  parents  and 
his  friends,  especially  Dr.  Arnold,  who  had  looked  forward  to  his 
achieving  great  distinction,  and  whose  well-known  dislike  of  the 
Tractarian  movement  made  him  doubly  grieve  at  what  he  re- 
garded as  indirectly  one  of  its  consequences.  Clough  himself 
seems  always  to  have  felt  a  solid  confidence  in  his  own  powers, 
and  perhaps  to  have  too  little  regarded  the  outward  means  of 
displaying  them.  Perhaps,  too,  he  was  somewhat  conscious  of 
that  inaptitude  to  put  himself  forward  to  the  best  advantage, 
which  many  of  his  friends  have  noticed,  and  accepted  it  with  his 
*  Head  of  St.  John's,  and  at  that  time  Ylce-ohancellor. 


xxiv       LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  C LOUGH. 

usual  stoic  philosophy.  At  any  rate  his  failure  did  not  long 
produce  the  effects  he  most  feared,  of  want  of  pupils;  for 
through  Dr.  Arnold's  kindness  he  was  soon  provided  with  profi- 
table employment  in  teaching  a  number  of  Rugby  boys  wlio 
were  kept  at  home  at  Liverpool  by  the  breaking  out  of  fever  in 
the  school.  During  this  time  he  stayed  at  home  with  his  family. 
In  the  autumn  he  returned  to  Oxford,  and  tried  for  a  fellowship 
at  Balliol.  In  this  he  was  unsuccessful.  He  continued,  how- 
ever, to  reside  at  Oxford,  and  supported  himself  on  the  ex- 
hibition,and  scholarship  which  he  still  held.  In  the  spring  of 
1842  he  was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel,  which  was  in  every  way  a 
great  and  cheei'ing  success  to  him.  It  healed  the  disappoint- 
ment which  his  former  failure  and  the  judgment  of  others  on  it 
had  caused,  and  seemed  to  give  him  a  new  life.  It  is  clear  by 
this  determination  of  his  to  abide  by  Oxford  and  to  seek  his 
career  and  his  living  there,  that  he  had  as  yet  formed  no  definite 
views  at  variance  with  the  principles  of  the  Chui'ch.  He  had 
come,  we  believe,  to  see  the  imimportance  of  many  things  com- 
monly insisted  on ;  his  intellect  could  no  longer  accept  the  ordi- 
nary formulas  of  religious  opinion;  but  he  was  not  provided 
with  any  other  scheme  to  set  up ;  his  habits  and  his  affections 
all  clung  to  the  old  ways ;  then  and  many  years  afterwards  he 
continued  to  feel  that  real  liberality,  width  of  view,  and  mental 
and  moral  cultivation  were  more  commonly  found  among  those 
nursed  in  the  Anglican  Church  than  in  any  exclusive  sect,  and 
probably  the  idea  of  any  violent  move,  of  quitting  the  home  in 
which  he  had  been  reared,  had  never  yet  crossed  his  mind.  His 
pleasure  in  his  success  in  obtaining  the  fellowship  was  much 
enhanced  by  the  satisfaction  which  it  gave  to  Dr.  Arnold,  and 
in  a  practical  way  it  was  doubly  valuable,  because  more  troubles 
were  now  thickening  round  him  and  his  family.  Money  diffi- 
culties pressed  hard  on  his  parents  at  this  time ;  his  help  was  much 
needed,  and  was  unsparingly  given.  For  some  sketches  of  this 
period  and  a  little  later  we  will  again  quote  Mr.  Shairp's  words. 
'  In  the  November  of  the  same  year  he  tried  for  a  Balliol  fel- 
lowship, but  was  not  successful.  Tait,i  however,  was  strong  in 
his  favour,  and,  I  believe,  some  other  of  the  Fellows.  I  remem- 
ber one  of  them  telling  me  at  the  time  that  a  character  of  Saul 

'  Afterwards  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  at  that  time  Fellow  and  tutor  of  Balliol 
College. 


ELECTED  FELLOW  OF  ORIEL.  xxv 

which  Clough  wrote  in  that  examination  was,  I  think  he  said, 
the  best,  most  original,  thing  he  had  ever  seen  written  in  any 
examination.  But  Oriel  had  at  that  time  a  way  of  finding  out 
original  genius  better  than  either  Balliol  or  the  Schools.  In 
the  spring  of  1842,  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  was  elected  Fellow  of 
Oriel,  the  last  examination  I  believe  in  which  Newman  took 
part.  The  announcement  of  that  success  I  remember  well.  It 
was  on  the  Friday  morning  of  the  Easter  week  of  that  year. 
The  examination  was  finished  on  the  Thursday  evening.  I  had 
asked  Clough  and  another  friend,  who  was  a  candidate  at  the 
same  time,  to  breakfast  with  me  on  the  Friday  morning,  as 
their  work  was  just  over.  Most  of  the  scholars  of  the  College 
were  staying  up  and  came  to  breakfast  too.  The  party  con- 
sisted of  about  a  dozen.  We  had  little  notion  that  anything 
about  the  examination  would  be  known  so  soon,  and  were  all 
sitting  quietly,  having  just  finished  breakfast,  but  not  yet  risen 
from  the  table.  The  door  opened  wide ;  entered  a  Fellow  of 
another  college,  and,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  he 
addressed  the  other  candidate:  "I  am  sorry  to  say  you  have 
not  got  it."  Then,  "  Clough,  you  have ;  "  and  stepping  forward 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  held  out  his  hand,  with  "Allow 
me  to  congratulate  you."  We  were  all  so  little  thinking  of  the 
fellowship,  and  so  taken  aback  by  this  formal  announcement,  that 
it  was  some  little  time  before  we  knew  what  it  was  all  about. 
The  first  thing  that  recalled  my  presence  of  mind  was  seeing  the 
delight  on  the  face  of  Clough's  younger  brother,  who  was  present. 
'  In  the  summer  of  1842,  while  I  was  reading  in  a  retired  part 
of  Wales  with  two  or  three  others,  Clough,  then  wandering 
through  the  Welsh  mountains,  one  morning  looked  in  on  us.  I 
took  a  walk  with  him,  and  he  at  once  led  me  up  Moel  Wyn,  the 
highest  mountain  within  reach.  Two  things  I  remember  that 
day :  one,  that  he  spoke  a  good  deal  (for  him)  of  Dr.  Arnold, 
whose  death  had  happened  only  a  few  weeks  before :  another, 
that  a  storm  came  down  upon  the  mountain  when  we  were  half- 
way up.  In  the  midst  of  it  we  lay  for  some  time  close  above  a 
small  mountain  tarn,  and  watched  the  storm-wind  working  on 
the  face  of  the  lake,  tearing  and  torturing  the  water  into  most 
fantastic,  almost  ghostly  shapes,  the  like  of  which  I  never  saw 
before  or  since.  These  mountain  sights,  though  he  did  not  say 
much,  he  used  to  eye  most  observantly. 


xxvi       LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

'  Early  in  the  autumn  of  1843,  Clough  came  to  Grasmere  to 
read  with  a  Balliol  reading-party,  of  which  I  was  one.  He  was 
with  us  about  six  weeks,  I  think  staying  till  towards  the  end  of 
September.  This  was  his  earliest  long  vacation  party,  all  things 
on  a  smaller  scale  than  his  later  ones  by  Loch  Ness,  or  on  Dee- 
side,  but  still  very  pleasant.  He  lived  in  a  small  lodging  immedi- 
ately to  the  west  of  Grasmere  church ;  we  in  a  farm-house  on 
the  lake.  During  these  weeks  I  read  the  Greek  tragedians  with 
him,  and  did  Latin  prose.  His  manner  of  translating,  especially 
the  Greek  choruses,  was  quite  peculiar ;  a  quaint  archaic  style 
of  language,  keeping  rigidly  to  the  Greek  order  of  the  words, 
and  so  bringing  out  their  expression  better,  more  forcibly  and 
poetically,  than  any  other  translations  I  had  heard.  When 
work  was  done  we  used  to  walk  in  the  afternoon  with  him  all 
over  that  delightful  country.  His  "  eye  to  country  "  was  won- 
derful. He  knew  the  whole  lie  of  the  different  dales  relatively 
to  each  other;  every  tarn,  beck,  and  bend  in  them.  He  used, 
if  I  remember  right,  to  draw  pen-and-ink  maps,  showing  us  the 
whole  lineaments  of  the  district.  Without  any  obtrusive  enthu- 
siasm, but  in  his  own  quiet  manly  way,  he  seemed  as  if  he  never 
could  get  too  much  of  it  —  never  walk  too  far  or  too  often  over 
it.  Bathing,  too,  formed  one  of  his  daily  occupations  up  in  a 
retired  pool  of  the  stream  that  afterwards  becomes  the  Rotha, 
as  it  comes  out  of  Easedale.  One  walk,  our  longest,  was  on  a 
Saturday,  up  Easedale,  over  the  Raise  by  Greenup,  Borrowdale, 
Honister  Crag,  under  the  starlight,  to  Buttermere.  In  the  small 
inn  there  we  stayed  all  Sunday.  Early  on  Monday  morning  we 
walked,  by  two  mountain  passes,  to  a  farm  at  the  head  of  Wast- 
water  to  breakfast.  On  the  way  we  crossed  Ennerdale,  and  up 
the  pass  close  under  the  nearly  perpendicular  precipices  of  the 
Pillar  —  a  tall  mountain,  which  is  the  scene  of  Wordsworth's 
pastoral  of  "  The  Brothers."  From  the  head  of  Wastwater,  up 
past  the  great  gorge  of  the  Mickledoor,  to  the  top  of  Seawfell, 
then  down  past  the  east  side  of  Bowfell  towards  Langdale  Pikes, 
and  so  home  to  Grasmere.  As  we  passed  under  Bowfell  a  beau- 
tiful autumn  afternoon,  we  lay  a  long  time  by  the  side  of  the 
lovely  Angle  Tarn.  The  sun,  just  before  he  sunk  beside  Bow- 
fell, was  showering  down  his  light,  which  dimpled  the  smooth 
face  of  the  tarn  like  heavy  drops  of  sun-rain.  Every  now  and 
then  a  slight  breeze  would  come  and  scatter  the  rays  broadcast 


SPEECHES  AT  THE  DECADE.  xxvii 

o'frer  the  little  loch,  as  if  some  unseen  hand  was  sowing  it  with 
golden  grain.  It  was  as  memorable  an  appearance  as  that  dif- 
ferent one  we  had  seen  a  year  ago  on  Moel  Wyn.  These  things, 
though  Clough  observed  closely,  and  took  pleasure  in,  he  did 
not  speak  often  about,  much  less  indulge  in  raptures. 

'  Some  of  our  party  were  very  good  hill-men.  One  day,  five 
or  six  in  all  set  out  on  a  race  from  our  door  by  Grasmere  Lake 
to  the  top  of  Fairfield.  He  was  the  second  to  reach  tlie  summit. 
His  action  uphill  was  peculiar ;  he  used  to  lay  himself  forward 
almost  horizontally  towards  the  slope,  and  take  very  long  strides 
which  carried  him  quickly  over  the  ground.  Few  men,  so  stout 
as  he  then  was,  could  have  matched  him  up  a  mountain. 

'  Shortly  after  this  time  at  Oxford,  somewhere  that  is  between 
1843  and  1845,  I  remember  to  have  heard  him  speak  at  a  small 
debating  society  called  the  Decade,  in  which  were  discussed 
often  graver  subjects,  and  in  a  less  popular  way,  than  in  the 
Union.  Having  been  an  unfrequent  attendei*,  I  heard  him  only 
twice.  But  both  times  what  he  said,  and  the  way  he  said  it, 
were  so  marked  and  weighty  as  to  have  stuck  to  memory  when 
almost  everything  else  then  spoken  has  been  forgotten.  The 
first  time  was  in  Oriel  Common-room ;  the  subject  proposed  — 
"  That  Tennyson  was  a  greater  poet  than  Wordsworth."  This 
was  one  of  the  earliest  expressions  of  that  popularity  —  since 
become  nearly  iiniversal  —  which  I  remember.  Clough  spoke 
against  the  proposition,  and  stood  up  for  Wordsworth's  great- 
ness with  singular  wisdom  and  moderation.  He  granted  fully 
that  Wordsworth  was  often  prosy,  that  whole  pages  of  the  "  Ex- 
cursion "  had  better  have  been  written  in  prose ;  but  still,  when 
he  was  at  his  best,  he  was  much  greater  than  any  other  modern 
English  poet,  saying  his  best  things  without  knowing  they  were 
80  good,  and  then  drawling  on  into  prosaic  tediousness,  without 
being  awai-e  where  the  inspiration  failed  and  the  prose  began. 
In  this  kind  of  unconsciousness,  I  think  he  said,  lay  much  of 
his  power.  One  of  the  only  other  times  I  heard  him  speak  was, 
about  the  same  time,  when  a  meeting  of  the  Decade  was  held 
in  Balliol  Common-room.  The  subject  of  debate  was  —  "  That 
the  character  of  a  gentleman  was  in  the  present  day  made  too 
much  of."  To  understand  the  drift  of  tliis  would  require  one 
to  know  how  highly  pleasant  manners  and  a  good  exterior  are 
rated  in  Oxford  at  all  times,  and  to  understand  something  of 


xxviii     LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  CLOUGH. 

the  peculiar  mental  atmosphere  of  Oxford  at  that  time.  Clough 
spoke  neither  for  nor  against  the  proposition ;  but  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  —  well  on  two  hours  —  he  went  into  the  origin  of 
the  ideal,  historically  tracing  from  mediaeval  times  how  much 
was  implied  originally  in  the  notion  of  a  "  gentle  knight "  — 
truthfulness,  consideration  for  others  (even  self-sacrifice),  cour- 
tesy, and  the  power  of  giving  outward  expression  to  these  moral 
qualities.  From  this  high  standard  he  traced  the  deterioration 
into  the  modern  Brummagem  pattern  which  gets  the  name. 
These  truly  gentlemen  of  old  time  had  invented  for  themselves 
a  whole  economy  of  manners,  which  gave  true  expression  to 
what  was  really  in  them,  to  the  ideal  in  which  they  lived.  These 
manners,  true  in  them,  became  false  when  adopted  traditionally 
and  copied  from  without  by  modern  men  placed  in  quite  differ- 
ent circumstances,  and  living  different  lives.  When  the  same 
qualities  are  in  the  hearts  of  men  now,  as  truly  as  in  the  best 
of  old  time,  they  will  fashion  for  themselves  a  new  expression, 
a  new  economy  of  manners  suitable  to  their  place  and  time. 
But  many  men  now,  wholly  devoid  of  the  inward  reality,  yet 
catching  at  the  reputation  of  it,  adopt  these  old  traditional  ways 
of  speaking  and  of  bearing  themselves,  though  they  express 
nothing  that  is  really  in  them. 

'  One  expression  I  remember  he  used,  to  illustrate  the  truth 
that  where  the  true  gentle  spirit  exists,  it  will  express  itself  in 
its  own  rather  than  in  the  traditional  way.  "  I  have  known 
peasant  men  and  women  in  the  humblest  places  in  Avhom 
dwelt  these  qualities  as  truly  as  tli^y  ever  did  in  the  best  of 
lords  and  ladies,  and  who  had  invented  for  themselves  a  whole 
economy  of  manners  to  express  them,  who  were  very  '  poets  of 
courtesy.' " 

'  His  manner  of  speaking  w.as  very  characteristic,  slow  and 
deliberate,  never  attempting  rhetorical  flow,  stopping  at  times 
to  think  the  right  thing,  or  to  feel  for  the  exactly  fitting  word, 
but  with  a  depth  of  suggestiveness,  a  hold  of  reality,  a  poetry  of 
thought,  not  found  combined  in  any  other  Oxonian  of  our  time. 

'It  must  have  been  in  the  autumn  of  1845  that  Clough  and 
I  first  met  in  Scotland.  One  visit  there  to  Walrond's  family  at 
Calder  Park  I  especially  remember.  On  a  fine  morning  early 
in  September  we  started  from  Calder  Park  to  drive  to  the  Falls 
of  Clyde.     We  were  to  spend  the  day  at  Milton  Lockhart,  and 


SCOTCH   WANDERINGS.  xxix 

go  on  to  Lanark  in  the  evening.  Besides  Walrond  and  Clough, 
there  were  T.  AruoUl,  E.  Arnold,  and  myself.  It  was  one  of 
the  loveliest  September  mornings  that  ever  shone,  and  the  drive 
lay  through  one  of  the  most  lovely  regions  in  south  Scotland, 
known  as  "  the  Trough  of  Clyde."  The  sky  was  bright  blue, 
fleeced  with  whitest  clouds.  From  Hamilton  to  Milton  Lock- 
hart,  about  ten  miles,  the  road  keeps  down  in  the  hollow  of  the 
trough,  near  the  water,  the  banks  covered  with  orchards,  full  of 
heavy-laden  apple  and  other  fruit  trees  bending  down  till  they 
touched  the  yellow  corn  that  grew  among  them.  There  is  a 
succession  of  fine  country  houses,  with  lawns  that  slope  towards 
lime  trees  that  bend  over  the  river.  It  was  the  first  tiijie  any  of 
us  but  Walrond  had  been  that  way,  and  in  such  a  drive,  under 
such  a  sky,  you  may  believe  we  were  happy  enough.  We  reached 
Milton  Lockhart,  a  beautiful  place,  built  on  a  high  grassy  head- 
land, beneath  and  round  which  winds  the  Clyde.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  I  believe,  chose  the  site,  and  none  could  be  more  beauti- 
fully chosen.  It  looks  both  ways,  up  and  down  the  lovely  vale. 
'  As  we  drove  up,  near  ten  o'clock,  we  found  the  late  ;Mr.  J. 
G.  Lockhart  (Scott's  biographer)  walking  on  the  green  terrace 
that  looks  over  the  river.  The  laird  himself  being  from  home, 
his  brother  was  our  host.  Soon  after  we  arrived,  his  daughter, 
then  very  young,  afterwards  Mrs.  Hope-Scott,  came  out  on  the 
terrace  to  say  that  breakfast  was  ready.  After  breakfast  she 
sang,  with  great  spirit  and  sweetness,  several  of  her  grand- 
father's songs,  copied  into  her  mother's  books  by  herself,  when 
they  were  still  newly  composed.  After  listening  to  these  for 
some  time,  her  brother,  Walter  Scott  Lockhart,  then  a  youth  of 
nineteen  or  so,  and  with  a  great  likeness  to  the  portraits  of  Sir 
Walter  when  a  young  man,  was  our  guide  to  an  old  castle,  situ- 
ated on  a  bank  of  one  of  the  small  glens  that  come  down  to 
the  Clyde  from  the  west.  It  was  the  original  of  Scott's  Tillie- 
tudlem  in  "Old  Mortality."  A  beautiful  walk  thither;  the 
castle  large,  roofless  and  green  with  herbage  and  leafage.  We 
stayed  some  time  roaming  over  the  green  deserted  place,  then 
returned  to  a  lunch,  which  was  our  dinner;  more  songs,  and 
then  drove  oft"  late  in  the  afternoon  to  the  Falls  of  Clyde  and 
Lanark  for  the  night.  It  was  a  pleasant  day.  Clough  enjoyed 
it  nmch  in  his  own  quiet  way  —  quietly,  yet  so  humanly  inter- 
ested in  all  he  met.     ]Many  a  joke  he  used  to  make  about  thai 


XXX        LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  C LOUGH. 

day  afterwards.  Not  he  only,  but  all  our  entertainers  of  that 
day,  Mr.  J.  G.  Lockhart,  his  son  and  daughter,  are  now  gone. 

'  In  the  summer  of  1847,  Clough  had  a  reading  party  at 
Drumnadrochet,  in  Glen  Urquhart,  about  two  miles  north  from 
Loch  Ness,  where,  about  the  beginning  of  August,  I,  along  with 
T.  Arnold  and  Wah'ond,  paid  him  a  visit.  Some  of  the  inci- 
dents and  characters  in  "  The  Bothie "  were  taken  from  that 
reading  party,  though  its  main  scenes  and  incidents  lay  in 
Braemar.  One  anecdote  I  specially  remember  connected  with 
that  visit.  On  our  way  to  Drumnadrochet,  T.  Arnold  and  I 
had  made  a  solitary  walk  together  from  the  west  end  of  Loch 
Rannoch,  up  by  Loch  Ericht,  one  of  the  wildest,  most  unfre- 
quented lochs  in  the  Highlands.  All  day  we  saw  only  one 
house,  till,  late  at  night,  we  reached  another  on  the  side  of  the 
loch,  about  six  miles  from  Dalwhinnie.  It  was  one  of  the  love- 
liest, most  primitive  places  I  ever  saw  even  in  the  most  out-of- 
the-way  parts  of  the  Highlands.  We  told  Clough  of  it,  and 
when  his  reading  party  was  over,  later  in  the  autumn,  he  went 
on  our  track.  He  spent  a  night  at  the  inn  at  the  west  end  of 
Loch  Rannoch,  called  Tighnalyne,  where  he  met  with  some  of 
the  incidents  which  appeared  in  "  The  Bothie."  He  also  visited 
the  house  by  the  side  of  Loch  Ericht,  a  small  heather-thatched 
hut,  occupied  by  one  of  the  foresters  of  the  Ben  Aulder  forest. 
He  found  one  of  the  children  lying  sick  of  a  fever,  the  father 
I  think  from  home,  and  the  mother  without  any  medicines  or 
other  aid  for  her  child.  He  immediately  set  off  and  walked  to 
Fort  William,  about  two  days'  journey  from  the  place,  but  the 
nearest  place  where  medicines  and  other  supplies  were  to  be 
had.  These  he  got  at  Fort  William,  and  returned  on  his  two 
days'  journey,  and  left  them  with  the  mother.  He  had  four 
days'  walk,  over  a  rough  country,  to  bring  medicines  to  this  lit- 
tle child,  and  the  people  did  not  even  know  his  name.  On  these 
occasions  in  Scotland,  he  told  me  that  he  used  to  tell  the  peo- 
ple he  was  a  "  Teacher,"  and  they  were  at  once  at  ease  with 
him  then.  I  doubt  whether  he  ever  mentioned  this  to  any  one 
but  myself,  and  to  me  it  only  came  out  casually. 

*If  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  was  from  this  place  that  he  took 
the  original  name  of  what  is  now  Tober-na-Vuolich.  In  this 
year  he  visited  the  West  Highlands,  and  went  through  "  Loch- 
aber,  anon  in  Locheil,  in  Knoydart,  Moydart,  Morrer,  Ardgower, 


VISITS   THE    WEST  HTGIILANDS.         xxxi 

and  Ardnamurchan."  In  the  first  edition  this  line  was — "  Knoy- 
dart,  aioydart,  Croydart,  Morrer,  and  Ardnamurchan."  But  he 
discovered  afterwards  that  Croydart  was  only  the  way  that  the 
Gael  pronounce  what  is  spelt  Kuoydart.  During  this  wander 
he  saw  all  the  country  about  Ben  Nevis,  westward  to  the  Atlan- 
tic— 

'  Where  the  great  peaks  look  abroad  over  Skye  to  the  wester- 
most  Islands. 

He  walked  "where  pines  are  grand  in  Glen-Mally,"  and  saw 
all  the  country  which  in  a  few  lines  here  and  there  he  has 
pictured  so  powerfully  in  "  The  Bothie."  The  expression 
about  Ben  Nevis,  with  the  morning  sprinkling  of  snow  on  his 
shoulders,  is  absolutely  true  to  reality. 

*In  this  expedition  he  came  to  Glenfinnan,  at  the  head  of 
Loch  Shiel,  the  place  where  Prince  Charles  met  the  Highland 
clans,  and  unfurled  his  standard.  Here  there  used  to  stand  a 
nice  quiet  little-frequented  inn,  where  one  could  live  for  weeks 
undisturbed.  But  at  the  time  when  Clough  reached  it,  a  great 
gathering  was  being  held  there.  The  Queen  had  gone  to  Loch 
Laggan,  and  the  ships  that  escorted  her  to  Fort  William  were 
lying  at  the  head  of  Loch  Linnhe.  McDonald  of  Glen  Aladale 
had  invited  all  the  officers  of  these  ships  to  have  a  day's  deer- 
stalking on  his  property  of  Glen  Aladale,  down  the  side  of  Loch 
Shiel,  and  to  have  a  ball  at  the  Glenfinnan  Inn  after  their  day's 
sport.  Clough  came  in  for  the  ball.  It  was  a  strange  gather- 
ing—  the  English  sailors,  officers,  a  few  Highland  lairds,  High- 
land farmers  and  shepherds,  with  their  wives  and  daughters, 
were  all  met  altogether  at  the  ball.  Clough  and  one  of  his  read- 
ing party  were  invited  to  join  the  dance,  and  they  danced  High- 
land reels,  and  went  through  all  the  festivities  like  natives. 
The  uproar  was  immense,  and  the  ludicrous  scenes  not  few. 
He  often  used  to  speak  of  it  afterwards,  as  one  of  the  motliest, 
drollest  gatherings  he  had  ever  fallen  in  with. 

'  Often  afterwards  he  used  to  speak  of  his  Scotch  adventures 
with  great  heartiness.  There  was  much  in  the  ways  of  life  he 
saw  there  that  suited  the  simplicity  of  his  nature.  Even  when 
Englishmen  would  laugh  at  the  baldness  of  our  Presbyterian 
services,  he  would  defend  them  as  better  than  English  ritualism 
and  formality.' 


xxxii      LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  C LOUGH. 

To  these  reminiscences  of  Principal  Shairp's  may  be  added 
some  notes  supplied  by  Professor  Coniugton,  of  his  recollections 
of  the  speeches  made  by  Clough  in  the  debates  of  a  society  at 
Oxford,  called  the  Decade.  Mr.  Conington  was  himself  the 
secretary  of  the  society  at  the  time  of  which  he  speaks.  '  The 
first  occasion  of  my  meeting  Mr.  Clough  at  the  Decade,'  he  says, 
'  was  on  February  14,  1846,  when  I  myself  brought  forward  the 
subject  for  discussion.  The  subject  was  —  "  That  means  ought 
to  be  adopted  by  the  Legislature  for  recognising  formally  the 
social  and  political  importance  of  the  manufacturing  interest." 
Sir  Robert  Peel's  change  of  policy  about  the  corn  laws  had  just 
been  announced,  and  those  of  us  who  were  on  the  movemen 
side  were  naturally  more  or  less  enthusiastic  in  favour  of  the 
manufacturers,  who  appeared  to  us  as  the  winners  of  a  great 
social  victory.  My  proposal,  if  I  remember  rightly,  was  to  the 
effect  that  they  ought  to  be  made  peers,  just  as  great  land- 
owners were.  In  this  the  bulk  of  the  members  present  at  that 
meeting  do  not  seem  to  have  concurred  with  me;  but  I  had 
Mr.  dough's  support.  I  do  not  recollect  thoroughly  a  single 
sentence  of  his  speech,  but  I  can  recall  his  commanding  manner, 
and  the  stately  serene  tones  in  which  he  delivered  a  kind  of 
prophecy  of  the  new  era  which  in  a  few  days  was  to  be  inaugu- 
rated, and  told  us  that  "  these  men  "  (the  manufacturers)  "  were 
the  real  rulers  of  England."  The  next  occasion  was  some 
months  afterwards,  on  June  9,  1846,  when  the  question  for  de- 
bate was  —  "  That  any  system  of  moral  science,  distinct  from  a 
consideration  of  Christianity,  is  essentially  imperfect."  Mr. 
Clough  is  reported  as  having  spoken  for  this  motion  in  part. 
He  eventually  moved  a  rider,  which,  with  the  motion,  was 
unanimously  accepted  —  "  But  the  existence  of  moral  science  is 
recognised  and  presupposed  by  the  idea  of  a  revelation."  The 
only  point  which  remains  on  my  mind  is  an  application  by  him 
of  the  text  "comparing  spiritual  things  with  spiritual;  "  "that 
is,"  said  he,  "comparing  the  spiritual  things  in  a  revelation 
with  the  spiritual  tilings  in  one's  own  mind." 

'I  see  there  were  five  other  occasions,  in  1847  and  the  early 
part  of  1848,  on  which  Mr.  Clough  appeared  at  the  Decade  dur- 
ing my  membership.  One  dwells  in  my  memory  with  tolerable 
distinctness  —  a  speech  made  in  a  debate  on  March  6,  1847,  the 
subject  being  —  "  That  the  study  of  philosophy  is  more  impor- 


SPEECHES  AT  THE  'DECADE:        xxxih 

tant  for  the  formation  of  opiuion  than  that  of  history."  I  see 
that  he  made  five  speeches  on  that  evening.  I  have  entered  him 
as  supporting  the  motion  "  with  qualifications,"  a  common  mode 
of  registering  opinion  in  our  debates :  but  I  remember  that,  as 
the  debate  grew  warm,  his  qualifications  seemed  to  disappear, 
and  in  the  speech  which  I  happen  to  recollect,  few  if  any  of  them 
were  visible.  "  What  is  it  to  me,"  he  said,  "to  know  the  fact 
of  the  battle  of  Marathon,  or  the  fact  of  the  existence  of  Crom- 
well? I  have  it  all  within  me."  Correcting  himself  afterwards, 
he  said,  "  I  do  not  mean  that  it  is  of  no  importance  to  me  that 
there  should  have  been  such  a  battle  or  such  a  person  ;  it  is  of  a 
great  deal :  but  it  is  of  no  importance  that  I  should  know  it." 

'  The  only  other  occasion  when  I  recollect  anything  of  Mr. 
Clough  which  seems  worth  recording  was  a  conversation  which 
I  had  with  him  in  the  autumn  of  1848.  He  had  given  up  his 
fellowship,  and  was  living  for  a  few  weeks  in  small  cheap  lodg- 
ings in  Holyw^ell  Street,  Oxford,  where  I  remember  finding  him 
without  a  fire  on  a  cold  day.  His  "Bothie"  was  just  about  to 
be  published,  and  he  gave  me  some  account  of  it,  particularly 
of  the  metre.  He  repeated  in  his  melodious  way,  several  lines, 
intended  to  show  me  how  a  verse  might  be  read  so  that  one  syl- 
lable should  take  up  the  time  of  two,  or,  conversely,  two  of  one. 
The  line  which  he  instanced  (altered,  I  think,  from  "Evan- 
geline ")  was  this :  — 

White  I  naked  |  feet  on  the  |  gleaming  |  floor  of  her  |  chamber. 

This  was  new  to  me,  as  I  had  not  risen  beyond  the  common 
notion  of  spondees,  dactyls,  and  the  rest.  So  I  asked  for  more 
explanation.  He  bade  me  scan  the  first  line  of  the  "  Paradise 
Lost."     I  began,   " '  Of    man's : '   iambus."      "  Yes."     " '  First 

dis-' " There  I  was  puzzled.     It  did  not  seem  an  iambus  or 

a  spondee  :  it  was  nearly  a  trochee,  but  not  quite  one.  He  then 
explained  to  me  his  conception  of  the  rhythm.  The  two  feet 
"  first  disobe- "  took  up  the  time  of  four  syllables,  two  iambic 
feet :  the  voice  rested  awhile  on  the  word  "  first,"  then  passed 
swiftly  over  "diso-,"  then  rested  again  on  "be-,"  so  as  to  re- 
cover the  previous  hurry.  I  think  he  went  on  to  explain  that 
in  the  next  foot,  "dience  and,"  both  syllables  were  short,  but 
that  the  loss  of  time  was  made  up  for  by  the  pause  required  by 
the  sense  after  the  former  of  the  two,  and  that  finally  the  voice 


xxxiv    LIFE  OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

rested  on  the  full  sounded  word  "fruit."  Possibly  this  last  im- 
pression may  really  be  the  result  of  my  own  subsequent  use  of 
the  clue  which  he  then  gave  me.  But  a  clue  it  was  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  term :  it  gave  me  an  insight  into  rhythm 
which  I  had  not  before,  and  which  has  constantly  been  my 
guide  since  both  in  reading  and  writing.' 

In  June  1842  occurred  the  death  of  Dr.  Arnold,  which  was  a 
severe  shock  as  well  as  a  great  grief  to  Clough  from  its  sudden- 
ness as  well  as  from  the  intense  reverence  and  aifection  he  felt 
for  him.  '  He  was  for  a  long  time  more  than  a  father  to  me,' 
were  his  own  words,  and  no  doubt  the  sensitive  boy,  exiled  from 
his  own  family  in  his  childhood,  clung  with  even  more  of  filial 
feeling  than  is  common  to  the  teacher  to  whom  he  owed  so  much. 
He  heard  the  news  at  Oxford,  ^nd  came  home  immediately, 
seeming,  as  his  sister  describes  him,  completely  stunned  by  the 
blow,  incapable  of  realising  or  speaking  of  what  had  happened, 
and  unable  to  rest.  He  soon  left  home,  and  wandered  away  among 
the  Welsh  hills,  where  Mr.  Shairp  tells  us  of  their  meeting. 

Later  in  the  summer  he  had  some  pupils  in  Ireland,  but  left 
them  to  come  over  to  bid  farewell  to  his  brother  George,  who 
sailed  for  America  in  October  1842.  He  was  deeply  attached 
to  this  his  youngest  brother,  whose  lively  spirits  combined  with 
most  affectionate  devotion  to  him  had  done  a  great  deal  to 
cheer  him  even  in  his  darkest  moments.  And  this  was,  as  it 
proved,  their  last  meeting.  The  poor  young  fellow,  only  just 
twenty-two,  was  struck  down  by  fever  at  Charleston,  when  away 
from  all  his  own  family,  and  died  there,  after  a  very  few  days'  ill- 
ness. His  father  had  sailed  for  America,  intending  to  join  him', 
before  the  news  of  his  illness  reached  England,  and  arrived  in 
Boston  only  to  hear  that  all  was  over.  The  shock  was  a  dread- 
ful one  to  the  unhappy  father,  and  came  with  a  double  force, 
because  he  relied  on  his  son's  help  at  this  moment  in  a  period 
of  great  anxiety  concerning  business.  He  never  recovered  the 
blow,  and  in  the  following  summer,  in  1843,  he  returned  home 
much  shaken  by  grief  and  very  ill  in  health,  and  after  lingering 
on  for  a  few  months,  during  which  time  he  was  most  tenderly 
nursed  by  all  his  family,  including  Arthur,  he  also  died. 

During  his  father's  illness,  and  the  years  that  immediately 
followed,  Arthur  spent  much  of  his  time  with  his  own  family  ; 
and  when  he  was  away  from  them,  he  always  took  an  active 


LIFE  AS   TUTOR.  xxxv 

part  in  all  plans  and  arrangements  for  their  comfort  and  happi- 
ness, lie  had  never  become  estranged  in  any  way  from  his 
home,  as  is  often  the  case  with  sons  and  brothers  whose  calling 
separates  them  from  their  families.  Essentially  tender  and 
domestic  in  his  feelings,  and  full  of  consideration  for  others,  it 
always  seemed  natural  to  him  to  enter  into  their  interests,  and 
to  undertake  trouble  and  responsibility  for  their  sakes. 

In  1843  he  had  been  appointed  tutor  as  well  as  Fellow  of 
Oriel,  and  he  is  spoken  of  as  being  remarkably  effective  in  this 
capacity.  '  A  most  excellent  tutor,  and  exceedingly  beloved  by 
the  undergraduates,'  one  of  those  who  best  knew  has  called 
him.  But  little  need  be  said  of  this  period.  He  led  a  quiet, 
hardworking,  uneventful  tutor's  life,  diversified  with  the  read- 
ing parties,  which  have  been  commemorated  in  the  '  Bothie.' 
This  was  the  time  when  most  of  the  poems  in  the  little  volume 
called  'Ambarvalia'  were  written.  He  took  a  warm  and  in- 
creasing interest  in  all  social  questions,  and  in  every  way  he 
seems  to  have  been  full  of  spirit  and  vigour.  To  his  younger 
friends  and  pupils  he  especially  endeared  himself.  Mr.  Wal- 
rond  says :  '  My  Oxford  days  seem  all  coloured  with  the  recol- 
lection of  happy  and  most  instructive  walks  and  talks  with  him. 
We  used  to  meet  every  day  almost,  though  at  different  colleges ; 
and  it  was  my  regular  Sunday  holiday  to  breakfast  with  him, 
and  then  take  a  long  ramble  over  Cumnor  Hurst  or  Bagley 
Wood.  When  I  recall  those  days,  the  one  thing  that  comes 
back  upon  me  most,  even  more  than  the  wisdom  and  loftiness 
and  suggestiveness  of  his  conversation,  is  hLs  unselfishness  and 
tender  kindness.  Many  must  have  told  you  what  a  gift  he  had 
for  making  people  personally  fond  of  him ;  I  can  use  no  other 
word.  For  myself,  I  owe  him  more  than  I  can  ever  tell,  for  the 
seed  of  just  and  noble  thoughts  sown,  for  the  pure  and  lofty  type 
of  character  set  before  me ;  but  the  feeling  of  personal  attach- 
ment is  the  strongest  of  all.'  Another  friend  of  this  period 
says:  'In  him  I  felt  I  had  an  example  of  a  nobleness  and  ten- 
derness of  nature  most  rare,  and  one,  too,  who,  since  I  was  an 
undergraduate,  had  always  g^ven  me  not  only  sincere  love,  but 
wise  and  sincere  counsel  in  many  difficulties.  What  he  would 
think  on  any  doubtful  point  was  indeed  often  in  the  mind  of 
many  others  with  me.  Often,  too,  I  have  remembered  that,  by 
his  taste,  I  was  first  led  to  read  and  take  pleasure  in  Wordsworth.' 


xxxvi     LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH   C LOUGH. 

Thus  his  life  passed  on  with  much  of  cheerful  and  active 
interest  and  work.  Yet  it  would  seem,  from  his  letters,  that 
he  was  living  at  Oxford  under  a  sense  of  intellectual  repression. 
He  appears  at  one  time  to  have  doubted  about  undertaking  the 
tutor's  work,  but  to  have  overcome  the  doubt.  He  evidently 
regarded  teaching  as  his  natural  vocation,  and  he  had  great 
enjoyment  in  it ;  but  the  sense  of  being  bound  by  his  position 
to  silence  on  many  important  subjects  probably  oppressed  him. 
At  intervals  he  expresses  vague  inclinations  to  leave  Oxford,  and 
seek  work  elsewhere  ;  but  the  difficulty  of  finding  this,  and  the 
undefined  nature  of  his  objections,  appear  to  have  hindered  him. 
At  this  time,  in  order  to  secure  the  comfort  of  a  near  relative, 
he  entered  into  a  pecuniary  arrangement,  by  which  he  bound 
himself  to  pay  lOOZ.  a  year,  on  condition  of  receiving  a  consider- 
able sum  at  the  death  of  one  of  the  parties  to  the  negotiation. 
This  was  looked  on  as  an  event  certain  to  occur  very  soon,  but, 
in  fact,  it  did  not  come  to  pass  for  fifteen  years ;  and  this  lia- 
bility, very  easily  borne  while  his  circumstances  were  prosper- 
ous, became  a  drag  upon  him  when  he  had  no  longer  any 
assured  income.  Thus,  though  everything  in  his  outward 
circumstances  combined  to  make  it  desirable  for  him  to  remain 
in  his  present  position,  yet  by  degrees  his  dissatisfaction  with 
it  became  too  strong  to  be  endured.  His  was  a  nature  'which 
moveth  all  together,  if  it  move  at  all ' ;  and,  once  entered  upon 
the  course  of  free  inquiry,  nothing  could  stop  the  expansion  of 
his  thought  in  that  direction.  His  absolute  conscientiousness 
and  intense  unworldliness  prevented  the  usual  influences  which 
slacken  men's  movements  from  telling  upon  his. 

It  is  not  very  obvious  what  eventually  decided  him  to  quit 
Oxford  at  the  precise  moment  when  he  did  so.  In  the  year  1847 
he  was  powerfully  stirred  by  the  distress  in  Ireland  at  the  time 
of  the  potato  famine,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  pamphlet  on 
'  Retrenchment ' ;  and  the  general  ferment  of  his  nature,  as 
well  as  the  ripening  of  opinions  in  his  own  mind,  probably 
tended  to  make  him  more  open  to  change.  Emerson  also  visited 
England  in  this  year.  Clough  became  intimate  with  him,  and 
his  influence  must  have  tended  to  urge  him  on  in  the  direction 
in  which  he  was  already  moving.  With  another  friend,  also, 
whose  general  dissatisfaction  with  European  life  was  strong,  he 
was  at  this  time  very  familiar.     We  are,  therefore,  disposed  to 


LEAVES  OXFORD.  xxxvii 

think  that  it  was  some  half  accidental  confirmation  of  his  own 
doubts  as  to  the  honesty  and  usefulness  of  his  own  course,  which 
brought  him  at  last  almost  suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  ques- 
tion whether  he  ought  to  resign  his  tutorship.  After  a  corre- 
spondence with  the  head  of  his  college  —  in  speaking  of  whom 
he  always  expressed  a  strong  sense  of  the  uniform  kindness 
which  he  had  received  from  him  under  these  trying  circum- 
stances—  he  eventually  gave  up  his  tutorship  in  1848 ;  and  this 
done,  though  his  fellowship  had  not  yet  expired,  he  began  to 
feel  his  whole  position  hollow ;  and  six  months  later  (in  October 
1848)  he  resigned  this  likewise,  and  thus  left  himself  unprovided 
with  any  present  means  of  making  a  livelihood,  and  with  the 
burden  of  the  annuity  to  which  we  have  alluded  still  hanging 
on  him.  The  sacrifice  was  greater  to  him  than  to  many  men, 
because  he  had  no  natural  aptitude  for  making  money.  His 
power  of  literary  production  was  always  uncertain,  and  very 
little  within  his  own  control.  His  conscientious  scruples  inter- 
fered with  his  writing  casually,  as  many  would  have  done ;  for 
instance,  we  are  told  that  he  would  not  contribute  to  any  paper 
or  review  with  whose  general  principles  he  did  not  agree.  He 
was,  therefore,  constrained  to  look  out  for  some  definite  post  in 
the  line  of  education ;  and  from  the  best  chances  in  this  depart- 
ment he  had  cut  himself  adrift  by  resigning  his  fellowship. 
He  did,  nevertheless,  take  this  step,  apparently  with  a  certain 
lightness  of  heart  and  buoyancy,  in  singular  contrast  with  what 
might  be  expected  to  be  the  feeling  of  a  man  taking  a  decision 
so  important  to  his  future  life.  It  is  clear  that  he  *  broke  away 
with  delight '  from  what  he  felt  to  be  the  thraldom  of  his  posi- 
tion in  Oxford. 

Immediately  after  laying  down  his  tutorship,  he  made  use  of 
his  leisure  to  go  to  Paris,  in  company  with  Emerson,  where  he 
spent  a  month  in  seeing  the  sights  of  the  Revolution. 

It  was  in  September  of  this  year  (1848),  when  staying  at  home 
with  his  mother  and  sister  in  Liverpool,  that  he  wrote  his  first 
long  poem,  the  '  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolich.'  This  was  his 
utterance  to  the  world  on  quitting  Oxford,  and  not  the  theologi- 
cal pamphlet  which  was  expected  from  him.  In  the  later  days 
he  would  often  speak  of  the  amusement  it  had  been  to  him  to 
think  of  the  disappointment  which  the  appearance  of  these 
lively  verses  would  produce  among  those  who  looked  for  a  seri- 


xxxviii    LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

ous  vindication  of  his  conduct.  Some  further  explanation  of 
his  feeling  will  be  furnished  by  an  unpublished  letter,  which  we 
subjoin :  — 

'  My  objection  in  limine  to  subscription  would  be,  that  it  is  a 
painful  restraint  on  speculation ;  but  beyond  this,  to  examine 
myself  in  detail  on  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  and  say  how  far 
my  thoughts  upon  them  had  passed  the  limit  of  speculation  and 
begun  to  assume  the  form  of  concretion,  would  be  not  only  diffi- 
cult and  distasteful  to  me,  but  absolutely  impossible.  I  could 
not  do  it  with  any  approximation  to  accuracy ;  and  I  have  no 
wish  to  be  hurried  into  precipitate  declarations  which,  after  all, 
might  misrepresent  my  mind.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  the  points 
in  question  with  me  would  not  be  subordinate  matters ;  but  at 
the  same  time  I  feel  no  call  to  the  study  of  theology,  and  for 
the  present  certainly  should  leave  these  .controversies  to  them- 
selves, were  they  not  in  some  measure  forced  upon  my  notice. 
Of  joining  any  sect  I  have  not  the  most  distant  intention.' 

This  year  he  spent  chiefly  at  home ;  and,  in  the  winter  of  1848, 
he  received  an  invitation  to  take  the  Headship  of  University 
Hall,  London,  an  institution  professing  entirely  unsectarian  prin- 
ciples, founded  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  students  attending 
the  lectures  at  University  College.  His  tenure  of  office  was  to 
date  from  October  1849,  and  he  determined  before  this  to  take 
his  first  long  holiday  of  travel,  and  to  go  to  Rome.  Thus  his 
visit  coincided  accideiitally  with  the  siege  of  Rome  by  the  French ; 
and  this,  though  it  deprived  him  of  many  opportunities  of  travel 
and  sight-seeing,  was  historically  and  politically  of  very  great 
interest  to  him.  This  was  the  scene  and  the  time  during  which 
he  wrote  his  second  long  poem,  the  '  Amours  de  Voyage.' 

In  October  1849  he  returned  to  enter  on  his  duties  at  Univer- 
sity HaU.  His  new  circumstances  were,  of  course,  very  differ- 
ent from  those  of  his  Oxford  life,  and  the  change  was  in  many 
respects  painful  to  him.  The  step  he  had  taken  in  resigning 
his  fellowship  isolated  him  greatly;  many  of  his  old  friends 
looked  coldly  on  him,  and  the  new  acquaintances  among  whom 
he  was  thrown  were  often  uncongenial  to  him.  The  transition 
from  the  intimate  and  highly  refined  society  of  Oxford  to  the 
bustling  miscellaneous  external  life  of  London,  to  one  not  well 
furnished  with  friends,  and  without  a  home  of  his  own,  could 


LIFE  AT  UNIVERSITY  HALL.         xxxix 

hardly  fail  to  be  depressing.  He  had  hoped  for  liberty  of 
thought  and  action  ;  he  had  found  solitude,  but  not  perfect 
freedom.  Though  not  bound  by  any  verbal  obligations,  he 
found  himself  expected  to  express  agreement  with  the  opinions 
of  the  new  set  among  whom  he  had  fallen,  and  this  was  no  more 
possible  to  him  here  than  it  had  been  at  Oxford.  His  old  pres- 
tige at  Oxford  availed  him  little  in  London ;  it  h  as  been  remarked 
by  his  friends  that  he  often  failed  to  show  himself  to  the  best 
advantage,  and  this  was  doubly  the  case  when  he  felt  himself 
not  understood.  This  was  without  doubt  the  dreariest,  loneliest 
period  of  his  life,  and  he  became  compressed  and  reserved  to  a 
degree  quite  unusual  with  him,  both  before  and  afterwards. 
He  shut  himself  up,  and  went  through  his  life  in  silence. 

Yet  here  too  he  gradually  formed  some  new  and  valuable 
friendships.  Among  these,  his  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Carlyle 
was  one  of  the  most  impoi'tant;  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he 
continued  to  entertain  the  warmest  feeling  for  that  great  man. 
It  was  part  of  the  sensitiveness  of  his  character  to  shrink  from 
going  back  on  old  impressions ;  and  though  he  always  retained 
his  affection  for  his  early  friends,  yet  intercourse  with  fresh 
minds  was  often  easier  to  him  than  with  those  to  whom  his 
former  phases  of  life  and  thought  were  more  familiar.  In  the 
autumn  of  1850  he  took  advantage  of  his  vacation  to  make  a 
hasty  journey  to  Venice,  and  during  this  interval  he  began  his 
third  long  poem  of  '  Dipsychus,'  which  bears  the  mark  of  Venice 
in  all  its  framework  and  its  local  colouring. 

We  have  now  mentioned,  at  the  dates  at  which  they  were  com- 
posed, all  his  longest  works  —  the  '  Bothie,'  the  'Amours  de  Voy- 
age '  and '  Dipsychus.'  No  other  long  work  of  his  remains  except 
the  '  Mari  Magno,'  which  is  properly  a  collection  of  short  poems, 
more  or  less  united  by  one  central  idea,  and  bound  together  by 
their  setting,  as  a  series  of  tales  related  to  each  other  by  a  party  of 
companions  on  a  sea  voyage.  The  'Ambarvalia,'  poems  written 
between  1840  and  1847,  chiefly  at  Oxford,  though  without  any 
setting  at  all,  have  something  of  the  same  inward  coherence. 
They  are  all  poems  of  the  inner  life,  while  the  'Mari  Magno* 
poems  deal  with  social  problems,  and  the  questions  of  love  and 
marriage.  His  voyage  to  America,  again,  produced  a  cluster  of 
little  sea  poems,  closely  linked  together  by  one  or  two  main 
thoughts. 


xl  LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH. 

It  has  often  been  a  subject  of  surprise,  that  with  such  evident 
powers  and  even  facility  of  production,  Clough  should  have  left 
so  little  behind  him,  even  considering  the  shortness  of  his  life, 
and  that  for  such  long  periods  he  should  have  been  entirely 
silent.  We  think  the  best  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  his 
peculiar  temper  of  mind,  and  we  might  say  physical  conforma- 
tion of  brain,  which  could  not  work  unless  under  a  combination 
of  favourable  circumstances.  His  brain,  though  powerful,  was 
slow  to  concentrate  itself,  and  could  not  cai'ry  on  several  occu- 
pations at  once.  Solitude  and  repose  were  necessary  for  produc- 
tion. This,  combined  with  a  certain  inertia,  a  certain  slowness 
of  movement,  constantly  made  it  hard  for  him  to  get  over  the 
initial  difficulties  of  self-expression,  and  w^ould  often,  no  doubt, 
cause  him  to  delay  too  long  and  lose  the  passing  inspiration  or 
opportunity.  But,  once  started,  his  very  weight  carried  him  on, 
as  it  did  in  the  'Bothie,'  'Amours,'  and  'Dipsychus,'  and  'Mari 
Magno.' 

Besides  this,  much  in  the  very  quality  of  his  poetry  will  ex- 
plain this  scantiness  of  production.  His  absolute  sincerity  of 
thought,  his  intense  feeling  of  reality,  rendered  it  impossible 
for  him  to  produce  anything  superficial,  and  therefore  actually 
curtailed  the  amount  of  his  creations.  His  excessive  conscien- 
tiousness winnowed  away  so  much  as  to  leave  often  a  sense 
of  baldness.  His  peculiar  habits  of  thought  also,  his  sense  of 
being  constantly  at  variance  with  the  ordinary  sentiments  of 
those  who  surrounded  him,  his  incapability  of  treating  the  com- 
mon themes  of  poetry  in  the  usual  manner,  his  want  of  interest 
in  any  poetry  which  did  not  touch  some  deep  question,  some 
vital  feeling  in  human  nature  (always  excepting  Ids  love  for  the 
simple  beauty  of  nature),  all  combined  to  diminish  his  range 
of  subjects.  He  had  to  enter  on  a  new  line,  to  create  a  new 
treatment  of  old  subjects,  to  turn  them  over  and  bring  them 
out  in  the  new  light  of  his  critical  but  kindly  philosophy.  This, 
iu  '  Mari  Magno,'  he  had  begun  to  do,  and  the  rapid  production 
of  these  last  poems  makes  us  believe  that  this  new  vein  would 
have  continued  had  he  lived,  and  that  we  sliould  have  received 
a  further  expression  of  his  views  about  the  daily  problems  of 
social  life. 

Looking  now  to  the  facts  of  his  life,  we  see  that  there  were 
in  it  very  few  intervals  during  which  he  enjoyed  the  combina- 


HABITS  OF   WRITING.  xli 

tion  of  favourable  circumstances  necessary  to  enable  him  to 
write.  He  never  was  free,  except  during  those  short  intervals, 
from  the  pressure  of  constant,  hard,  practical  work.  He  was 
constantly  under  the  necessity  of  using  his  power  of  work  for 
the  purpose  of  immediately  making  a  living.  His  conscientious 
efforts,  first  to  relieve  his  parents  from  the  burden  of  his  educa- 
tion, and  then  to  assist  them,  have  been  related  before.  As 
Fellow  and  tutor  his  earnings  were  freely  contributed,  and  no 
doubt  the  desire  of  doing  this  was  one  great  reason  for  under- 
taking the  tutor's  work  at  Oriel.  It  is  true  that  this  was  a  time 
of  comparative  wealth,  but  it  was  earned  by  hard  labour  of  a 
practical  kind,  and  it  has  been  already  shown  that  during  this 
period  he  made  a  pecuniary  engagement  which  burdened  him 
for  many  years  after.  Thus  his  duty  to  others  never  allowed 
him  for  any  interval  to  cast  himself  on  his  fortune,  and  run 
risks  for  a  while  for  the  sake  of  freedom  and  opportunities.  To 
many  men  this  burden  would  have  been  lighter,  but  he  was  a 
heavy  moving  vessel;  he  could  not  turn  and  set  his  sails  to 
catch  light  favouring  winds.  He  could  not  use  spare  half-hours 
to  write  well-paid  reviews  or  popular  articles,  or  even  poetry. 
The  demand  for  his  wares  seemed  to  spoil  the  supply.  That 
it  should  be  profitable,  seemed  to  make  it  impossible  to  him 
to  write.  Thus  he  was  driven  to  harder,  less  congenial  work, 
simply  because  it  was  positive  and  certain.  Nothing,  for  in- 
stance, would  have  been  more  grateful  to  him  than  after  leaving 
Oxford  to  be  free  for  a  few  years  to  roam  about  the  world  be- 
fore settling  to  a  new  vocation,  but  this  was  never  to  be  thought 
of.  No  doubt  there  is  another  side  to  the  picture;  the  real 
acquaintance  with  life  and  men,  which  this  entire  acceptance 
of  various  positions  taught  him,  not  only  gave  him  valuable 
training,  but  furnished  him  with  materials  which  in  a  mind  of 
his  calibre  would,  we  doubt  not,  have  come  out  in  some  literary 
form.  But  for  the  time  they  simply  choked  his  power  of  pro- 
duction, and  no  doubt  prevented  the  utterance  of  many  thoughts 
on  religious  and  other  subjects. 

After  two  years  at  University  Hall,  the  founding  of  a  new 
college  at  Sydney  induced  him  to  seek  a  change,  and  he  pre- 
sented himself  as  a  candidate  for  its  jirincipalship,  a  post  which 
Dr.  Woolley  eventually  obtained.  Tliis  would  have  brought 
him  a  safe  income,  and  one  on  which  he  could  afford  to  marry. 


xlii         LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

He  had  great  hopes  of  success,  and  this  tempted  him  to  engage 
himself  to  be  married.  But  very  soon  after  he  had  done  this 
the  appointment  was  decided  against  him,  and  he  was  at  the 
same  time  obliged  to  give  up  University  Hall.  His  prospects 
were  thus  less  hopeful  than  ever.  Yet  the  stimulus  which  he 
had  received  supported  him  in  the  struggle  to  obtain  some  kind 
(  of  position  in  which  he  might  gain  a  livelihood.  His  fi'iends 
endeavoured  to  procure  an  appointment  for  him  in  the  Educa- 
tion Office ;  but  the  downfall  of  the  Liberal  Ministry  destroyed 
all  his  chances  for  the  time.  Then,  after  much  deliberation 
and  inward  hesitation,  he  resolved  to  go  out  to  America,  and 
try  what  opening  he  might  find  there,  as  a  teacher  or  a  literary 
man.  But  to  leave  England,  to  make  a  new  beginning  in  life, 
and  to  pull  himself  up  again,  as  it  were,  by  the  roots,  was  not 
an  easy  matter  to  one  of  his  tenacious  temperament.  Some 
expression  of  the  feelings  which  possessed  him  comes  out  in 
the  poems  written  on  shipboard.  Eventually  he  sailed,  in 
October  1852,  and  settled  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  There 
he  was  welcomed  with  remarkable  cordiality,  and  formed  many 
friendships  which  lasted  to  the  end  of  his  life.  Still  his  posi- 
tion was  too  solitary  to  be  cheerful,  but  he  appreciated  very 
highly  the  hopefulness  and  the  moral  healthiness  of  the  new 
country,  and  he  always  retained  warm  feelings  of  admiration 
and  affection  for  its  citizens. 

At  Cambridge  he  remained  some  time  without  much  employ- 
ment, but  by  degrees  he  gathered  a  certain  number  of  pupils. 
He  also  wrote  several  articles  at  this  time  in  the  '  North  Ameri- 
can Review,'  and  in  '  Putnam's  Magazine,'  and  other  magazines, 
and  before  long  undertook  a  revision  of  the  translation,  known 
as  Dryden's,  of  Plutarch's  '  Lives,'  for  an  American  publisher. 
Thus  he  carried  on  a  great  deal  of  work,  and  was  gradually 
making  himself  an  assured  position ;  and  he  would  probably 
have  felt  no  difficulty  in  settling  down  in  America  as  his  home, 
had  not  the  offer  of  an  examinership  in  the  Education  Office, 
which  his  friends  obtained  for  him,  come  to  draw  him  home- 
wards again.  The  certainty  of  a  permanent,  though  small 
income,  the  prospects  of  immediate  marriage,  and  his  nat- 
iiral  affection  for  his  own  country,  decided  him  to  accept  the 
place,  and  give  up  his  chances  in  America,  not  without  some 
regret,  after  he  had  gradually  brought  his  mind  to  the  idea  of 


EXAMINER  IN  EDUCATION  OFFICE,     xliii 

adopting  a  new  country.  His  genuine  democratic  feeling  re- 
joiced in  the  wider  diffusion  of  prosperity  and  substantial  com- 
forts wliich  he  found  in  America ;  at  the  same  time  he  would 
doubtless  have  suffered  greatly  from  the  expatriation,  and 
would  probably  have  always  regretted  his  exclusion  from  what 
he  calls  '  the  deeper  waters  of  ancient  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence '  to  be  found  in  the  old  country. 

In  July  1853  he  returned  to  England,  and  at  once  entered  on 
the  duties  of  his  office.  Henceforth  his  career  was  decided  for 
him.  He  was  freed  from  perplexing  questions  as  to  choice  of 
occupation.  His  business  life  was  simple,  straiglitforward,  and 
hard-working;  but  it  was  made  up  of  little  beyond  official 
drudgery,  and  the  fact  of  his  entering  the  public  service  so  late 
diminished  his  prospect  of  reaching  higher  posts.  His  immedi- 
ate objects,  however,  were  answered ;  and  in  June  1854  he  mar- 
ried. For  the  next  seven  years  he  lived  quietly  at  home;  and 
during  this  time  three  children  were  born  to  him,  who  formed 
his  chief  and  unfailing  delight.  No  events  of  any  moment 
marked  this  period;  but  it  was  one  of  real  rest  and  content- 
ment. It  is  hard  to  speak  of  happiness  which  has  vanished 
from  the  earth ;  yet  what  comfort  remains  lies  chiefly  in  the 
thought  that  now  at  last  his  life  did  reach  a  sort  of  culmination, 
that  a  great-hearted  man  did  for  a  short  time  find  his  natural 
repose  in  the  pleasures  of  a  home,  and  that  he  was  able,  for  a 
short  space  at  least,  to  devote  his  great  faculties  freely  to  the 
service  of  others.  Up  to  this  date  we  may  almost  say  that  he 
had  been  too  free  from  active  and  absorbing  employment  for 
his  own  happiness.  Circumstances  had  forced  him  to  try  dif- 
ferent schemes  and  to  engage  in  various  undertakings  with  very 
moderate  success,  and  the  want  of  definite  and  continuous 
occupation  left  his  mind  free  to  deal  restlessly  with  the  great 
insoluble  problems  of  the  world,  which  had  for  him  so  true  a 
vitality  that  he  could  not  dismiss  them  from  his  thoughts. 
After  his  marriage  there  was  none  of  this  enfoi'ced  and  painful 
communing  with  self  alone.  He  had  plenty  to  do;  and  the 
close  relations  into  which  he  was  brought  with  various  members 
of  his  wife's  family  kept  him  actively  employed,  and  tasked  his 
sympathies  to  the  full.  All  the  new  duties  and  interests  of 
domestic  life  grew  up  and  occupied  his  daily  thoughts.  The 
humour  which  in  solitude  had  been  inclined  to  take  the  hue  of 


xliv         LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  C LOUGH. 

irony  and  sarcasm,  now  found  its  natural  and  healthy  outlet. 
The  practical  wisdom  and  insight  into  life,  for  which  he  was 
distinguished,  were  constantly  exercised  in  the  service  of  his 
friends ;  and  the  new  experience  which  he  was  daily  gathering 
at  home  made  many  perplexed  questions,  both  social  and  reli- 
gious, clear  and  simple  to  his  mind.  In  this  way,  though  he 
did  not  cease  to  think  about  the  problems  which  hitherto  had 
occupied  his  leisure,  he  thought  about  them  in  a  different  way, 
and  was  able,  so  to  speak,  to  test  them  by  the  facts  of  actual 
life,  and  by  the  intuitions  and  experience  of  those  whose  char- 
acter he  valued,  instead  of  submitting  them  only  to  the  cruci- 
ble of  his  own  reflection.  The  close  and  constant  contact  with 
another  mind  gave  him  a  fresh  insight  into  his  own,  and  devel- 
oped a  new  understanding  of  the  wants  of  other  people,  so  that 
the  results  of  many  years  of  meditation  grew  distinct  and  solid. 
Having  thus  passed  from  the  speculative  to  the  constructive 
phase  of  thought,  it  is  quite  certain,  from  little  things  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  that,  had  he  been  permitted,  he 
would  have  expressed  his  mature  convictions  in  works  of  a  more 
positive  and  substantial  kind.  But,  unfortunately,  he  was  too 
willing  and  too  anxious  to  take  work  of  every  sort,  and  to  spend 
himself  for  others.  Therefore  he  soon  became  involved  in 
labours  too  exciting  for  a  constitqtion  already  somewhat  over- 
tasked, nor  was  he  ever  able  to  yield  himself  wholly  to  the 
healthful  indolence  of  private  life.  To  a  period  of  wasting 
thought  and  solitude  succeeded  one  of  over-strenuous  exertion ; 
bracing  indeed,  but,  for  a  man  of  his  sympathetic  temperament 
and  laborious  past  life,  too  absorbing  and  engrossing.  What, 
however,  must  always  be  remembered  is,  that  Clough  was  happy 
in  his  work,  and  happy  in  his  home  life.  It  would  be  easy,  were 
it  necessary,  to  show  from  his  poems  how  strong  in  him  was  the 
sense  of  family  feeling,  how  tenderly  and  delicately  he  appre- 
ciated the  family  relations,  how  fond  he  was  of  children  and 
young  people,  how  naturally  he  enjoyed  domestic  life.  Nor  can 
any  one  doubt  that  in  work  itself  lie  found  full  satisfaction, 
especially  in  such  work  as  made  him  helpful  to  others,  and 
brought  him  into  vivid  human  contact  with  his  fellow-workers. 
Both  of  these  sources  of  satisfaction,  home  life  and  congenial 
work,  had  hitherto  been  denied  him.  Now  they  were  largely 
given  to  him,  and,  had  his  strength  been  equal  to  the  demands 


CHARACTER  AND  INFLUENCE.  xlv 

which  were  made  upon  it,  a  long  life  of  happiness  and  useful- 
ness was  clearly  oj^en  to  him. 

Besides  the  work  of  the  office,  the  translation  of  Plutarch, 
begun  in  America,  absorbed  a  great  part  of  his  scanty  leisure 
during  five  years  after  his  return  from  America.  In  the  spring 
of  1856  he  was  appointed  secretary  to  a  commission  for  examin- 
ing the  scientific  military  schools  on  the  Continent.  He  visited, 
in  consequence,  the  gi-eat  schools  for  artillery  and  engineers  in 
France,  Prussia,  and  Austria.  The  travelling  lasted  about  three 
months,  and  besides  being  very  interesting  and  agreeable,  it 
afforded  him  much  occupation  during  a  considerable  time  after- 
wards. Another  employment,  which  frequently  fell  to  him,  was 
the  examining  of  candidates  in  his  own  special  subject  of  Eng- 
lish literature,  sometimes  for  Woolwich,  sometimes  in  his  own 
office.  But  the  work  in  which  he  took  the  deepest  interest  was 
that  of  his  friend  and  relation.  Miss  Nightingale.  He  watched 
over  every  step  in  her  various  undertakings,  affording  her  assist- 
ance not  merely  with  advice,  and  little  in  his  life  gave  him 
greater  satisfaction  than  to  be  her  active  and  trusted  friend. 

"We  see  that  his  life,  though  uneventful,  was  fuU  of  work,  and 
we  can  also  understand  why  this  period  of  his  life  produced  no 
poetical  result.  The  conditions  under  which  he  could  create 
were  at  this  time  wholly  wanting.  lie  had  not  time  or  strength 
or  leisure  of  mind  to  spend  on  his  natural  gift  of  writing ;  and 
to  his  friends  it  must  ever  be  a  source  of  sorrow  that  his  natural 
vocation,  what  he  himself  felt  as  such,  was  unfulfilled.  He 
himself  always  looked  forward  to  some  time  when  greater  oppor- 
tunity might  be  granted  him,  when  the  various  experiences  of 
later  life,  the  results  of  his  later  thought,  might '  assort  them- 
selves upon  the  brain,'  and  be  given  out  in  some  definite  form. 
In  the  meantime  he  waited,  not  impatiently  or  unwillingly,  for 
he  was  slow  to  draw  conclusions,  as  he  was  also  patient  in  hear- 
ing the  views  of  others,  and  ready  in  his  appi'eciation  of  them. 
Yet  his  mind  did  not  fail  to  exercise  a  powerful  influence  upon 
others.  All  who  knew  him  well  will  bear  witness  to  the  strong 
impression  left  by  his  character,  and  by  the  force  and  original- 
ity of  his  intellect.  He  was  not  prompt  to  give  out  distinct 
opinions  or  answers  to  theoretical  questions,  but  he  seldom  failed 
to  find  a  practical  solution  to  any  immediate  difficulty,  whether 
mental  or  practical.    His  mind  turned  more  and  more  to  action 


xlvi        LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH 

as  its  natural  relief  ;  and  in  his  family  circle  his  gentle  wisdom 
and  patience  and  great  tenderness  of  feeling  caused  him  to  be 
constantly  appealed  to  in  all  difficulties.  It  was  indeed  only  in 
the  intimacy  of  daily  life  that  the  full  charm  and  grace  of  his 
nature  was  felt,  the  intense  lovableness  of  it,  the  tender  unselfish- 
ness, and  the  manly  courage  with  which  he  met  the  difficulties 
of  life,  and  helped  others  through  them.  His  was  a  character 
not  easy  to  describe,  whose  charm  was  so  personal  that  it  seems 
to  evaporate  when  translated  into  words.  He  was  a  singular 
combination  of  enthusiasm  and  calmness,  of  thoughtfulness  and 
imagination,  of  speech  and  silence,  of  seriousness  and  humour. 
Ordinarily  somewhat  slow  of  utterance,  he  often  seemed,  as  a 
friend  said  of  him,  '  to  be  choked  by  his  own  fulness.'  His  own 
words  in  the  '  Bothie  '  not  unaptly  described  him  — 

Author  forgotten  and  silent  of  currentest  phrases  and  fancies ; 
Mute  and  exuberant  by  turns,  a  fountain  at  intervals  playing ; 
Mute  and  abstracted,  or  strong  and  abundant  as  rain  in  tlie  tropics. 

On  special  occasions  he  would  pour  out  the  accumulation  of  his 
mind,  but  most  often  the  stream  remained  liid,  and  only  came 
to  the  surface  in  his  poetry,  or  in  little  incisive  phrases,  most 
apt  to  engrave  themselves  sharply  on  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 
He  had  a  strong  sense  of  humour,  and  was  always  ready  to  look 
on  this  side  of  the  daily  incidents  of  life;  and  his  friends  will 
long  remember  his  genial  smile,  and  his  hearty,  almost  boyish, 
laugh.  This  brightness  and  the  sunny  sweetness  of  his  temper, 
gave  cheerfulness  to  what  might  otherwise  have  been  too  seri- 
ous a  temperament,  for  though  not  specially  anxious  in  personal 
things,  yet  the  habit  of  his  mind,  his  high-wrought  conscien- 
tiousness and  susceptibility  of  feeling,  rendered  him  liable  to  be 
deeply  impressed  by  the  sad  things  of  the  world,  the  great  diffi- 
culties especially  of  modern  social  life,  which  were  in  truth  to 
him  '  a  heavy  and  a  weary  weight.' 

It  has  been  remarked  that  in  his  later  poems  there  is  no  dis- 
tinct expression  of  the  peace  he  had  attained.  It  is  true  we  find 
in  them  rather  a  freedom  from  disturbance  than  a  positive  ex- 
pression of  belief.  But  his  peace  was  not  the  result  of  a  crisis, 
of  a  sudden  conversion,  which  often  pours  itself  out  in  words ; 
it  was  the  fruit  of  years  of  patient  thought  and  action,  it  was  a 
temper  of  mind.     lie  felt  no  impulse  to  speak  of  it.     He  turned 


FAILING  HEALTH.  xlvii 

his  mind  to  the  practical  questions  of  the  world,  as  appears  in 
these  later  poems,  which  instantly  began  to  flow  forth  as  soon  as 
his  brain  was  relieved  from  the  constant  pressure  of  work. 

Witli  so  much  of  inward  peace,  absolutely  free  from  envy  or 
jealousy,  not  depressed  by  the  want  of  outward  success  given  in 
so  much  larger  measure  to  many  of  his  contemporaries,  capable  of 
looking  at  outward  things  from  a  truly  philosophic  height,  gifted 
with  genuine  humour,  and  open  in  his  soul  to  all  kindly  natural 
feelings,  endowed  with  a  rare  power  of  inspiring  unclouded  af- 
fection, he  could  not  but  enjoy  a  high  degree  of  happiness.  It 
has  been  called  a  broken  life.  Broken  indeed  it  was,  by  death, 
too  soon  for  the  work  he  might  have  done,  too  soon  for  any  full 
comprehension  of  him  by  the  public,  or  by  any  but  his  near 
friends,  too  soon  for  those  who  loved  him  and  depended  on  him. 
But  not  too  soon  for  the  realisation  of  a  great  and  manly  char- 
acter, for  the  achievement  in  himself  of  the  highest  and  purest 
peace ;  not  too  soon  to  give  to  a  few  who  really  knew  him  the 
strongest  sense  of  what  he  was  in  himself.  It  was  easiest  to  de- 
scribe him  by  negatives,  yet  perhaps  no  one  ever  made  a  more  con- 
crete positive  impression  on  those  who  knew  him.  As  one  of  his 
friends  said, '  I  always  felt  his  presence ; '  and  truly  he  was  above 
all  a  power,  a  warm  supporting  presence.  His  poems  tell  us  of 
his  perplexities,  his  divided  thoughts,  his  uncertainties ;  those 
who  remember  him  will  think  rather  of  his  simple  directness  of 
speech  and  action,  the  clearness  of  his  judgment  on  any  moot 
point ;  above  all,  it  is  remarkable  how  unanimous  all  those  who 
knew  him  are  in  expressing  their  feeling  of  his  entire  nobleness, 
his  utter  purity  of  character.  It  seems  impossible  to  speak  of 
him  without  using  these  words. 

But  now  this  happy  and  peaceful  though  laborious  life  was 
approaching  a  too  early  close.  There  was  never  to  be  any  com- 
plete opportunity  given  here  for  showing  to  the  full  what  his 
best  friends  believed  to  be  in  him,  and  what  his  poems  partly 
reveal.  Probably  ever  since  very  early  youth  he  had  been  sub- 
jected to  a  too  severe  moral  and  intellectual  strain.  His  health, 
though  good,  had  never  been  strong,  and  after  1859  it  began  to 
cause  anxiety  to  his  family,  when  a  series  of  small  illnesses  and 
accidents  combined  to  weaken  his  constitution.  In  the  summer 
of  1860,  he  also  suffered  the  loss  of  his  mother.  After  a  Imger- 
ing  illuess  of  several  years,  she  died  of  paralysis,  a  disease  to 


xlviii      LIFE   OF  ARTHUR   HUGH  CLOUGH. 

which  several  of  the  family  had  succumbed,  and  which  was  so 
soon  after  to  strike  down  her  son. 

His  usual  autumn  holiday,  this  time  spent  chiefly  in  Scotland, 
failed  of  its  usual  good  effect  in  reviving  him,  and  finding  him- 
self seriously  out  of  health,  he  obtained  six  months'  leave  from 
the  Council  Office.  He  then  underwent  several  weeks'  treat- 
ment at  Malvern,  w"hich  appeared  to  improve  his  health.  After- 
wards, in  February  1861,  he  removed  to  Freshwater,  in  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  and  here,  though  at  first  in  a  suffering  state,  he  soon 
improved  and  regained  his  spirits,  and  for  the  last  time  really 
enjoyed  his  family  life  with  his  wife  and  children.  He  was 
naturally  fond  of  children,  and  to  his  own  little  ones  he  was  a 
most  tender  and  devoted  father ;  he  never  tired  of  strolling 
about  with  them,  carrying  them  on  his  back  along  the  country 
lanes,  and  listening  to  their  just  beginning  talk.  The  pleasures 
of  the  counti'y  had  always  had  a  strong  hold  upon  him,  and  the 
opening  spring  in  that  sweet  spot  brought  many  pleasant  sights ; 
many  walks  among  daffodil  and  snowdrop  beds,  and  discoveries 
of  ferns  in  sheltered  nooks.  He  always  rose  early,  and  was 
often  seen  strolling  over  the  downs  before  breakfast.  At  this 
time  he  retui'ned  to  his  old  employment  of  translating  Homer, 
the  only  form  of  versification  which  he  had  not  laid  aside  alto- 
gether during  his  office  work.  This  became  now  a  great  pleas- 
ure to  him.  At  this  time  too  he  wrote  two  or  three  of  the 
miscellaneous  poems.  Here  also  it  was  a  source  of  great  enjoy- 
ment to  him  to  be  near  friends  whom  he  especially  valued,  and 
whose  society  gave  him  just  the  intellectual  stimulus  he  needed 
for  enjoyment. 

But  this  pleasant  time  came  too  soon  to  an  end.  Though 
himself  unwilling  to  move  from  a  place  where  he  felt  happy, 
and  where  he  had  experienced  an  improvement  in  his  health, 
he  was  warned  that  the  good  would  soon  be  exhausted,  and  that 
the  climate  was  too  relaxing  for  warmer  weather.  Further 
change  of  air,  and  still  more  change  of  scene,  were  ordered,  and 
in  the  middle  of  April  he  went  alone  to  Greece  and  Constanti- 
nople. Apparently  he  greatly  enjoyed  this  journey,  and  no 
sooner  was  he  again  at  leisure  and  in  solitude  than  the  old 
fountain  of  verse,  so  long  dry  within  him,  reopened  afresh. 
During  this  journey  he  wrote  the  first  and  perhaps  the  second 
of  the  '  Mari  Magno '  stories.     In  June  he  returned  for  a  few 


JOURNEY  TO   THE  PYRENEES.  xlix 

weeks  to  England ;  he  seemed  unable  to  bear  any  protracted 
absence,  and  to  long  for  his  home  ;  yet  he  consented  to  quit  it 
again  in  July  and  go  to  Auvergne  and  the  Pyrenees.  There  he 
was  fortunate  enough  to  join,  though  but  for  a  short  time,  his 
friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tennyson,  whose  companionship  made  his 
solitary  wanderings  pleasant,  and  to  it  he  owed  probably  more 
than  pleasure,  some  of  the  stimulus  which  produced  the  poems 
which  were  his  last  creations.  While  traveUing  in  Auvergne 
and  the  Pyi'enees  he  composed  all  the  remaining  'Mari  Magno ' 
tales,  except  the  last,  which  was  conceived  and  wi'itten  entirely 
during  his  last  illness.  In  the  south  of  France  he  remained  till 
the  middle  of  September,  when  he  went  to  Paris  to  join  his  wife. 
Tiieir  three  little  children  had  been  left  in  England;  he  had 
very  much  wished  to  come  home  and  see  them  before  starting 
on  a  further  journey,  but  in  the  present  state  of  his  nerves  it 
was  considered  desirable  to  avoid  any  unnecessary  emotion,  and 
he  unwillingly  yielded  this  point.  lie  felt  the  privation  very 
keenly,  though  he  shrank  from  any  words,  and  he  could  hardly 
endure  to  hear  about  the  children  whom  he  had  not  been  allowed 
to  revisit.  In  this  way  it  unfortunately  came  to  pass  that  he 
never  even  saw  his  youngest  child,  a  little  girl  who  was  born 
after  he  left  England  the  second  time.  In  Paris  he  spent  a  few 
days  and  then  set  out  to  travel  thi'ough  Switzerland  to  the 
Italian  lakes,  intending  to  stay  some  time  at  Florence,  and  reach 
Rome  before  the  winter.  He  was  then  able  to  enjoy  much, 
though  he  could  bear  but  little  fatigue.  They  stopped  at  Dijon 
to  see  the  beautiful  Puits  de  Moyse  and  the  sculptures  in  the 
Museum  by  the  same  hand;  and  then  crossed  the  Jura  from 
Salines  to  Pontarlier  and  Neufchatel.  Between  Salines  and 
Pontarlier  was  then  still  a  beautiful  drive  in  the  diligence  over 
low  grassy  hills  crowned  with  pine  woods.  At  Pontarlier  they 
rejoined  the  railway;  a  striking  line,  seen  as  they  saw  it  by 
moonlight,  a  'chemin  tres  accidente,'  keeping  half-way  up  the 
hill-side,  equally  steep  whether  looking  up  or  down,  and  con- 
tinually darting  in  and  out  through  numerous  tunnels.  After 
this  came  three  pleasant  vetturino  days  over  tlie  Simplon,  one 
spent  in  the  long  drive  up  the  Valais,  monotonous  but  pleasant, 
with  occasional  walks  and  halts  to  gather  the  deep  blue  gentians 
and  mountain  pinks  on  the  wayside.  The  next  day,  on  which 
they  crossed  the  pass,  a  sudden  deep  snow  came  ou,  unusual  so 


1  LIFE   OF  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

early  in  the  year  as  September ;  many  little  avalanches  fell,  and 
it  was  with  some  difficulty  they  reached  the  crest.  Then  on  de- 
scending the  slope  of  the  great  alpine  wall,  into  the  country  of 
the  sun,  everything  changed  suddenly,  the  snow  disappeared, 
and  all  seemed  bursting  into  rich  vegetation.  Arthur  enjoyed 
this  part  of  the  journey  excessively;  first  the  beautiful  Pass  of 
Gondo,  full  of  waterfalls  and  cascades,  then  the  descent  lower 
down  on  Domo  d'Ossola,  among  walnut  and  chestnut  trees. 
The  sense  of  southern  beauty  and  richness  seemed  to  penetrate 
him  with  enjoyment.  The  third  day's  drive  to  Stresa  on  Lago 
Maggiore  was  also  full  of  pleasure.  At  Stresa  they  rested  a  few 
days  and  made  expeditions  to  Isola  Bella,  Orta,  and  Magadino ; 
but  here  he  became  slightly  unwell,  and  hurried  on  to  Milan, 
thinking  it  would  be  more  bracing.  He  did  apparently  improve, 
and  took  pleasm*e  in  visiting  the  pictures  and  churches,  but  never 
recovered  himself;  and  they  continued  their  painful  journey 
during  which  he  grew  gradually  worse,  to  Florence,  where  they 
expected  to  meet  friends,  and  where  they  found  good  medical 
help.  Some  days  were  better  than  others,  and  at  Parma  he 
spent  a  few  hours  among  the  pictures  of  Correggio  with  great 
enjoyment.  The  last  day  before  entering  Florence  they  had  a 
drive  of  several  hours  over  the  Apennines,  coming  down  on 
Pistoia.  It  was  a  lovely  sunny  day ;  the  hills  were  covered  with 
young  chestnuts  and  flowering  arbutus ;  the  air  was  fresh  and 
soothing,  and  he  seemed  to  revive  on  the  heights,  but  looked 
with  dread  on  the  valley  lying  beneath,  with  its  white  towns 
shining  hot  in  the  sun. 

They  reached  Florence  early  in  the  day  of  October  10.  That 
afternoon  Arthur  went  to  the  Boboli  Gardens,  and  to  look  at 
the  grand  arches  of  Orcagna  in  the  Piazza  del  Granduca.  The 
next  day  too  he  attempted  to  walk  as  far  as  the  Cathedral  and 
the  Baptistery,  which  were  close  to  the  hotel.  But  on  the  12th, 
when  a  permanent  lodging  had  been  found,  he  went  to  bed,  un- 
able longer  to  resist  the  fever.  He  had  suffered  much  rheu- 
matic pain  in  the  head,  but  it  very  soon  gave  way  to  treatment, 
and  after  this  he  did  not  suffer  much.  The  fever,  a  sort  of  ma- 
laria, had  its  course,  and  appeared  to  give  way.  During  the  first 
three  weeks  he  seemed  perpetually  occupied  with  a  poem  he  was 
writing,  the  last  in  the  volume  of  his  poems ;  and  when  he  be- 
gan apparently  to  recover,  and  was  able  to  sit  up  for  several 


HIS  DEATH  AT  FLORENCE.  li 

hours  in  the  day,  he  insisted  on  trying  to  write  it  out,  and  when 
this  proved  too  great  an  effort  he  begged  to  dictate  it.  But  he 
broke  down  before  it  was  finished,  and  returned  to  bed  never  to 
leave  it  again.  A  few  days  before  his  death  he  begged  for  a 
pencil  and  contrived  to  write  down  two  verses,  and  quite  to  the 
end  his  thouglits  kept  hold  of  his  poem.  Fortunately  it  had  all 
been  completed  and  written  out  in  pencil  in  the  first  stage  of 
his  illness,  and  was  found  after  his  death  in  his  notebook.  It 
seemed  a  comfort  to  him  to  have  his  mind  preoccupied  and  re- 
lieved from  the  weight  of  illness  and  anxiety  by  this  creative 
instinct. 

The  fever  left  him  worn  out,  and  then  paralysis,  with  which 
he  had  been  threatened,  struck  him  down.  On  the  13th  of 
November  he  died,  in  his  forty-third  year. 

Three  days  before  his  death  his  sister  reached  him  from  Eng- 
land. He  knew  her,  and  was  glad  to  see  her  near  him,  but  he 
was  too  weak  to  realise  the  parting  that  was  coming. 

He  lies  buried  in  the  little  Protestant  cemetery,  just  outside 
the  walls  of  Florence,  looking  towards  Fiesole  and  the  hills 
which  he  loved  and  which  he  had  gazed  on  as  he  entered  Flor- 
ence, little  thinking  he  should  leave  it  no  more.  'Tall  cy- 
presses wave  over  the  graves,  and  the  beautiful  hills  keep  guard 
around ; '  nowhere  could  there  be  a  lovelier  resting-place. 

The  memory  of  Arthur  Clough  will  be  safe  in  the  hearts  of 
his  friends.  Few  beyond  his  friends  have  known  him  at  all ; 
his  wi-itings  may  not  reach  beyond  a  small  circle ;  but  those 
who  have  received  his  image  into  their  hearts  know  that  some- 
thing has*  bfeen  given  them  which  no  time  can  take  away,  and 
to  them  we  think  no  words  will  seem  fitter  tlian  those  of  the 
poet,  happily  also  his  friend,  which  have  cherished  the  memory 
of  another  beautiful  soul :  — 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
We  see  thee  as  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


AN  EVENING  WALK  IN  SPRING. 

It  was  but  some  few  nights  ago 

I  wandered  down  this  quiet  lane ; 
I  pray  that  I  may  never  know 

The  feelings  then  I  felt,  again. 
The  leaves  were  shining  all  about, 

You  might  almost  have  seen  them  springing ; 
I  heard  the  cuckoo's  simple  shout. 

And  all  the  little  birds  were  singing. 
It  was  not  dull,  the  air  was  clear. 

All  lovely  sights  and  sounds  to  deal, 
My  eyes  could  see,  my  ears  could  hear. 

Only  my  heart,  it  would  not  feel ; 
And  yet  that  it  should  not  be  so. 

My  mind  kept  telling  me  within ; 
Though  nought  was  wrong  that  I  did  know, 

I  thought  I  must  have  done  some  sin. 
For  I  am  sure  as  I  can  be. 

That  they  who  have  been  wont  to  look 
On  all  in  Nature's  face  they  see. 

Even  as  in  the  Holy  Book  ; 
They  who  with  pure  and  humble  eyes 

Have  gazed  and  read  her  lessons  high, 
And  taught  their  spirits  to  be  wise 

In  love  and  human  sympathy,  — 
That  they  can  soon  and  surely  tell 

When  ought  has  gone  amiss  within, 
When  the  mind  is  not  soimd  and  well, 

Nor  the  soul  free  from  taint  of  sin. 
For  as  God's  Spirit  from  above. 

So  Beauty  is  to  them  below, 
And  when  they  slight  that  holy  love. 

Their  hearts  that  presence  may  not  know. 
1 


C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

So  I  turned  home  the  way  I  came, 

With  downcast  looks  and  heavy  heart, 
A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  shame, 

With  a  dull  grief  that  had  no  smart. 
It  chanced  when  I  was  nearly  there 

That  all  at  once  I  raised  my  eyes  — 
Was  it  a  dream,  or  vision  rare. 

That  then  they  saw  before  them  rise  ? 
I  see  it  now,  before  me  here. 

As  often,  often  1  have  done. 
As  bright  as  it  could  then  appear. 

All  shining  in  the  setting  sun. 
Elms,  with  their  mantling  foliage  spread. 

And  tall  dark  poplars  rising  out, 
And  blossomed  orchards,  white  and  red. 

Cast,  like  a  long  low  fence,  about ; 
And  in  the  midst  the  grey  church-tower. 

With  one  slight  turret  at  its  side, 
Bringing  to  mind  with  silent  power 

Those  thousand  homes  the  elm  trees  hide. 
And  then  there  came  the  thought  of  one 

Who  on  his  bed  of  sickness  lay. 
Whilst  I  beneath  the  setting  sun 

Was  dreaming  this  sweet  hour  away. 
I  thought  of  hearts  for  him  that  beat. 

Of  aching  eyes  their  watch  that  kept ; 
The  sister's  and  the  mother's  seat  — 

And  oh !  I  thought  I  should  have  wept. 
And  oh  !  my  spirit  melted  then. 

The  weight  fell  off  me  that  I  bore. 
And  now  I  felt  in  truth  again 

The  lovely  things  that  stood  before. 

0  blessed,  blessed  scene,  to  thee, 

For  that  thy  sweet  and  softening  power, 

1  could  have  fallen  upon  my  knee. 

Thy  stately  elms,  thy  grey  church-tower. 
So  then  I  took  my  homeward  way. 

My  heart  in  sweet  and  holy  frame, 
With  spirit,  I  may  dare  to  say. 

More  good  and  soft  than  when  I  came. 
1836. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


AN   INCIDENT. 

'TwAs  on  a  sunny  summer  day 

I  trod  a  mighty  city's  street, 
And  when  I  started  on  my  way 

My  heart  was  full  of  fancies  sweet ; 
But  soon,  as  nothing  could  be  seen, 
But  countenances  sharp  and  keen. 
Nought  heard  or  seen  around  but  told 
Of  something  bought  or  something  sold. 
And  none  that  seemed  to  think  or  care 
That  any  save  himself  was  there,  — 

Full  soon  my  heart  began  to  sink 

With  a  strange  shame  and  inward  pain, 

For  I  was  sad  within  to  think 
Of  this  absorbing  love  of  gain. 

And  various  thoughts  my  bosom  tost ; 

When  suddenly  my  path  there  crossed. 

Locked  hand  in  hand  with  one  another, 

A  little  maiden  and  her  brother  — 

A  little  maiden,  and  she  wore 

Around  her  waist  a  pinafore. 

And  hand  in  hand  along  the  street 

This  pretty  pair  did  softly  go, 
And  as  they  went,  their  little  feet 

Moved  in  short  even  steps  and  slow: 
It  was  a  sight  to  see  and  bless. 
That  little  sister's  tenderness ; 
One  hand  a  tidy  basket  bore 
Of  flowers  and  fruit  —  a  chosen  store, 
Such  as  kind  friends  oft  send  to  others  — 
And  one  was  fastened  in  her  brother's. 

It  was  a  voice  of  meaning  sweet, 
And  spake  amid  that  scene  of  strife 

Of  home  and  homely  duties  meet, 
And  charities  of  daily  life ; 

And  often,  should  my  spirit  fail. 

And  under  cold  strange  glances  quail. 


CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

'Mid  busy  shops  and  busier  throng, 
That  speed  upon  their  ways  along 
The  thick  and  crowded  thoroughfare, 
I'll  call  to  mind  that  little  pair. 
1836. 


THE   THEEAD  OF  TRUTH. 

Truth  is  a  golden  thread,  seen  here  and  there 
In  small  bright  specks  upon  the  visible  side 
Of  our  strange  being's  party-coloured  web. 
How  rich  the  converse !     'Tis  a  vein  of  ore 
Emerging  now  and  then  on  Earth's  rude  breast, 
But  flowing  full  below.     Like  islands  set 
At  distant  intervals  on  Ocean's  face. 
We  see  it  on  our  course ;  but  in  the  depths 
The  mystic  colonnade  unbroken  keeps 
Its  faithful  way,  invisible  but  sure. 
Oh,  if  it  be  so,  wherefore  do  we  men 
Pass  by  so  many  marks,  so  little  heeding  ? 
1839. 


REVIVAL. 


So  I  went  wrong. 
Grievously  wrong,  but  folly  crushed  itself. 
And  vanity  o'ertoppling  fell,  and  time 
And  healthy  discipline  and  some  neglect. 
Labour  and  solitary  hours  revived 
Somewhat,  at  least,  of  that  original  frame. 
Oh,  well  do  I  remember  then  the  days 
When  on  some  grassy  slope  (what  time  the  sun 
Was  sinking,  and  the  solemn  eve  came  down 
With  its  blue  vapour  upon  field  and  wood 
And  elm-embosomed  spire)  once  more  again 
I  fed  on  sweet  emotion,  and  my  heart 
With  love  o'erflowed,  or  hushed  itself  in  fear 
Unearthly,  yea  celestial.     Once  again 
My  heart  was  hot  within  me,  and,  meseemed, 
I  too  had  in  my  body  breath  to  wind 


EARLY  POEMS. 

The  magic  horn  of  song ;  I  too  possessed 
Up-welling  in  ray  being's  depths  a  fount 
Of  the  true  poet-nectar  whence  to  fill 
The  golden  urns  of  verse. 
1839. 


THE   SHADY  LANE. 

Whence  comest  thou,  shady  lane  ?  and  why  and  how  ? 

Thou,  where  with  idle  heart,  ten  years  ago, 

I  wandered,  and  with  childhood's  paces  slow 

So  long  unthought  of,  and  remembered  now ! 

Again  in  vision  clear  thy  pathwayed  side 

I  tread,  and  view  thy  orchard  plots  again 

With  yellow  fruitage  hung,  —  and  glimmering  grain 

Standing  or  shocked  through  the  thick  hedge  espied. 

This  hot  still  noon  of  August  brings  the  sight ; 

This  quelling  silence  as  of  eve  or  night. 

Wherein  Earth  (feeling  as  a  mother  may 

After  her  travail's  latest  bitterest  throes) 

Looks  up,  so  seemeth  it,  one  half  repose, 

One  half  in  effort,  straining,  suffering  still. 

1839. 


THE  HIGHER  COURAGE.* 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  heart !  — 

Ah,  fickle  spirit  and  untrue, 
I  bade  the  only  guide  depart 

Whose  faithfulness  I  surely  knew : 
I  said,  my  heart  is  all  too  soft; 
He  who  would  climb  and  soar  aloft 
Must  needs  keep  ever  at  his  side 
The  tonic  of  a  wholesome  pride. 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  heart !  — 
Alas,  I  called  not  then  for  thee ; 

1  This  and  the  following  Early  Poems  are  reprinted  from  the 
volume  called  Amharvalia. 


CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

I  called  for  Courage,  and  apart 

From  Pride  if  Courage  could  not  be, 
Then  welcome,  Pride !  and  I  shall  find 
In  thee  a  power  to  lift  the  mind 
This  low  and  grovelling  joy  above  — 
'Tis  but  the  proud  can  truly  love. 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  heart !  — 

With  incrustations  of  the  years 
Uncased  as  yet,  —  as  then  thou  wert, 

Full-filled  with  shame  and  coward  fears : 
Wherewith  amidst  a  jostling  throng 
Of  deeds,  that  each  and  all  were  wrong, 
The  doubting  soul,  from  day  to  day, 
Uneasy  paralytic  lay. 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  heart ! 

I  said.  Perceptions  contradict, 
Convictions  come,  anon  depart, 

And  but  themselves  as  false  convict. 
Assumptions,  hasty,  crude  and  vain. 
Full  oft  to  use  will  Science  deign ; 
The  corks  the  novice  plies  to-day 
The  swimmer  soon  shall  cast  away. 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  heart ! 

I  said,  Behold,  I  perish  quite. 
Unless  to  give  me  strength  to  start, 

I  make  myself  my  rule  of  right : 
It  must  be,  if  I  act  at  all, 
To  save  my  shame  I  have  at  call 
The  plea  of  all  men  understood,  — 
Because  I  willed  it,  it  is  good. 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  heart ! 

I  know  not  if  in  very  deed 
This  means  alone  could  aid  impart 

To  serve  my  sickly  spirit's  need ; 
But  clear  alike  of  wild  self-will, 
And  fear  that  faltered,  paltered  still, 
Remorseful  thoughts  of  after  days 
A  way  espy  betwixt  the  ways. 


EARLY  POEMS. 

Come  back  again,  old  heart !  Ah  me  I 
Methinks  in  those  thy  coward  fears 

There  might,  perchance,  a  courage  be, 
That  fails  in  these  the  manlier  years ; 

Courage  to  let  the  courage  sink. 

Itself  a  coward  base  to  think, 

Rather  than  not  for  heavenly  light 

Wait  on  to  show  the  truly  right. 

1840. 


WRITTEN  ON  A  BRIDGE. 

When  soft  September  brings  again 
To  yonder  gorse  its  golden  glow, 

And  Snowdon  sends  its  autumn  rain 
To  bid  thy  current  livelier  flow ; 

Amid  that  ashen  foliage  light 

When  scarlet  beads  are  glistering  bright, 

While  alder  boughs  unchanged  are  seen 

In  summer  livery  of  green ; 

When  clouds  before  the  cooler  breeze 

Are  flying,  white  and  large ;  with  these 

Returning,  so  may  I  return. 

And  find  thee  changeless,  Pont-y-wern. 

1840. 


A  RIVER  POOL. 

Sweet  streamlet  bason  !  at  thy  side 
Weary  and  faint  within  me  cried 
My  longing  heart,  —  In  such  pure  deep 
How  s\veet  it  were  to  sit  and  sleep ; 
To  feel  each  passage  from  without 
Close  up,  —  above  me  and  about, 
Those  circling  waters  crystal  clear, 
That  calm  impervious  atmosphere ! 
There  on  thy  pearly  pavement  pure, 
To  lean,  and  feel  myself  secure. 
Or  through  the  dim-lit  inter-space, 
Afar  at  whiles  upgazing  trace 


CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

The  dimpling  bubbles  dance  around 
Upon  thy  smooth  exterior  face ; 
Or  idly  list  the  dreamy  sound 
Of  ripples  lightly  flung,  above 
That  home,  of  peace,  if  not  of  love. 
1840. 


IN  A  LECTURE-EOOM. 

Away,  haunt  thou  not  me. 

Thou  vain  Philosophy ! 

Little  hast  thou  bestead, 

Save  to  perplex  the  head, 

And  leave  the  spirit  dead. 

Unto  thy  broken  cisterns  wherefore  go, 

"While  from  the  secret  treasure-depths  below, 

Fed  by  the  skyey  shower. 

And  clouds  that  sink  and  rest  on  hill-tops  high, 

Wisdom  at  once,  and  Power, 

Are  welling,  bubbling  forth,  unseen,  incessantly  ? 

Why  labour  at  the  dull  mechanic  oar. 

When  the  fresh  breeze  is  blowing. 

And  the  strong  current  flowing. 

Right  onward  to  the  Eternal  Shore  ? 

1840. 


^  Blank  Misgivings  of  a  Creature  moving  about  in  Worlds 
not  realised.' 


Here  am  I  yet,  another  twelvemonth  spent. 
One-third  departed  of  the  mortal  span. 
Carrying  on  the  child  into  the  man, 
Nothing  into  reality.     Sails  rent. 
And  rudder  broken,  —  reason  impotent,  — 
Affections  all  unfixed;  so  forth  I  fare 
On  the  mid  seas  unheedingly,  so  dare 
To  do  and  to  be  done  by,  well  content. 
So  was  it  from  the  first,  so  is  it  yet; 


EARLY  POEMS. 

Yea,  the  first  kiss  that  by  these  lips  was  set 
On  any  human  lips,  methinks  was  sin  — 
Sin,  cowardice,  and  falsehood ;  for  the  will 
Into  a  deed  e'en  then  advanced,  wherein 
God,  imideutified,  was  thought-of  still. 

II. 

Though  to  the  vilest  things  beneath  the  moon 

Eor  poor  Ease'  sake  I  give  away  my  heart. 

And  for  the  moment's  sympathy  let  part 

My  sight  and  sense  of  truth,  Thy  precious  boon, 

My  painful  earnings,  lost,  all  lost,  as  soon, 

Almost,  as  gained ;  and  though  aside  I  start, 

Belie  Thee  daily,  hourly,  —  still  Thou  art, 

Art  surely  as  in  heaven  the  sun  at  noon ; 

How  much  so  e'er  I  sin,  whate'er  I  do 

Of  evil,  still  the  sky  above  is  blue. 

The  stars  look  down  in  beauty  as  before  : 

It  is  enough  to  walk  as  best  we  may. 

To  walk,  and,  sighing,  dream  of  that  blest  day 

When  ill  we  cannot  quell  shall  be  no  more. 

III. 

Well,  well,  —  Heaven  bless  you  all  from  day  to  day ! 

Forgiveness  too,  or  e'er  we  part,  from  each. 

As  I  do  give  it,  so  must  I  beseech : 

I  owe  all  much,  much  more  than  I  can  pay ; 

Therefore  it  is  I  go ;  how  could  I  stay 

Where  every  look  commits  me  to  fresh  debt, 

And  to  pay  little  I  must  borrow  yet  ? 

Enough  of  this  already,  now  away  ! 

With  silent  woods  and  hills  untenanted 

Let  me  go  commune ;  under  thy  sweet  gloom, 

O  kind  maternal  Darkness,  hide  my  head : 

The  day  may  come  I  yet  may  reassume 

My  place,  and,  these  tired  limbs  recruited,  seek 

The  task  for  which  I  now  am  all  too  weak. 


IV. 

Yes,  I  have  lied,  and  so  must  walk  my  way, 
Bearing  the  liar's  curse  upon  my  head ; 


10  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Letting  my  weak  and  sickly  heart  be  fed 

On  food  which  does  the  present  craving  stay, 

But  may  be  clean-denied  me  e'en  to-day, 

And  tho'  'twere  certain,  yet  were  ought  but  bread ; 

Letting  —  for  so  they  say,  it  seems,  I  said, 

And  1  am  all  too  weak  to  disobey  ! 

Therefore  for  me  sweet  Nature's  scenes  reveal  not 

Their  charm ;  sweet  Music  greets  me  and  I  feel  not 

Sweet  eyes  pass  off  me  uninspired;  yea,  more. 

The  golden  tide  of  opportunity 

Flows  wafting-in  friendships  and  better,  —  I 

Unseeing,  listless,  pace  along  the  shore. 


How  often  sit  I,  poring  o'er 

My  strange  distorted  youth, 
Seeking  in  vain,  in  all  my  store, 

One  feeling  based  on  truth ; 
Amid  the  maze  of  petty  life 

A  clue  whereby  to  move, 
A  spot  whereon  in  toil  and  strife 

To  dare  to  rest  and  love. 
So  constant  as  my  heart  would  be. 

So  fickle  as  it  must, 
'Twere  well  for  others  as  for  me 

'Twere  dry  as  summer  dust. 
Excitements  come,  and  act  and  speech 

Plow  freely  forth  ;  —  but  no, 
Nor  they,  nor  ought  beside  can  reach 

The  buried  world  below. 
1841. 

VI. 

Like  a  child 


In  some  strange  garden  left  awhile  alone, 
I  pace  about  the  pathways  of  the  world. 
Plucking  light  hopes  and  joys  from  every  stem 
With  qualms  of  vague  misgivings  in  my  heart 
That  payment  at  the  last  will  be  required, 
Payment  I  cannot  make,  or  guilt  incurred, 
And  shame  to  be  endured. 
1841. 


EARLY  POEMS.  11 


VII. 

Eoiised  by  importunate  knocks 

I  rose,  I  turned  the  key,  and  let  them  in, 
First  one,  anon  another,  and  at  length 
In  troops  they  came ;  for  how  could  I,  who  once 
Had  let  in  one,  nor  looked  him  in  the  face. 
Show  scruples  e'er  again  ?     So  in  they  came, 
A  noisy  band  of  revellers,  —  vain  hopes. 
Wild  fancies,  fitful  joys  ;  and  there  they  sit 
Iri  my  heart's  holy  place,  and  through  the  night 
Carouse,  to  leave  it  when  the  cold  grey  dawn 
Gleams  from  the  East,  to  tell  me  that  the  time 
For  watching  and  for  thought  bestowed  is  gone. 
1841. 

VIII. 

0  kind  protecting  Darkness  !  as  a  child 

Flies  back  to  bury  in  its  mother's  lap 

His  shame  and  his  confusion,  so  to  thee, 

0  Mother  Night,  come  I !  within  the  folds 

Of  thy  dark  robe  hide  thou  me  close ;  for  I 

So  long,  so  heedless,  with  external  things 

Have  played  the  liar,  that  whate'er  I  see. 

E'en  these  white  glimmering  curtains,  yon  bright  stars 

Which  to  the  rest  rain  comfort  down,  for  me 

Smiling  those  smiles,  which  I  may  not  return. 

Or  frowning  frowns  of  fierce  triumphant  malice, 

As  angry  claimants  or  expectants  sure 

Of  that  I  promised  and  may  not  perform. 

Look  me  in  the  face !     0  hide  me.  Mother  Night ! 

1841. 

IX. 

Once  more  the  wonted  road  I  tread. 

Once  more  dark  heavens  above  me  spread, 

Upon  the  windy  down  I  stand. 

My  station  whence  the  circling  land 

Lies  mapped  and  pictured  wide  below  ;  — 

Such  as  it  was,  such  e'en  again. 

Long  dreary  bank,  and  breadth  of  plain 

By  hedge  or  tree  unbroken ;  —  lo  ! 

A  few  grey  woods  can  only  show 


12  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

How  vain  their  aid,  and  in  the  sense 
Of  one  unaltering  impotence, 
Relieving  not,  meseems  enhance 
The  sovereign  dulness  of  the  expanse. 
Yet  marks  where  human  hand  hath  been, 
Bare  house,  unsheltered  village,  space 
Of  ploughed  and  fenceless  tilth  between 
(Such  aspect  as  methinks  may  be 
In  some  half-settled  colony), 
From  Nature  vindicate  the  scene ; 
A  wide,  and  yet  disheartening  view, 
A  melancholy  world. 

'Tis  true. 
Most  true  ;  and  yet,  like  those  strange  smiles 
By  fervent  hope  or  tender  thought 
From  distant  happy  regions  brought. 
Which  upon  some  sick  bed  are  seen 
To  glorify  a  pale  worn  face 
With  sudden  beauty,  —  so  at  whiles 
Lights  have  descended,  hues  have  been, 
To  clothe  with  half-celestial  grace 
The  bareness  of  the  desert  place. 
Since  so  it  is,  so  be  it  still ! 
Could  only  thou,  my  heart,  be  taught 
To  treasure,  and  in  act  fulfil 
The  lesson  which  the  sight  has  brought : 
In  thine  own  dull  and  dreary  state 
To  work  and  patiently  to  wait : 
Little  thou  think'st  in  thy  despair 
How  soon  the  o'ershaded  sun  may  shine, 
.     And  e'en  the  dulling  cloi;ds  combine 
To  bless  with  lights  and  hues  divine 
That  region  desolate  and  bare, 
Those  sad  and  sinful  thoughts  of  thine. 

Still  doth  the  coward  heart  complain ; 
The  hour  may  come,  and  come  in  vain ; 
The  branch  that  withered  lies  and  dead 
No  suns  can  force  to  lift  its  head. 
True! — yet  how  little  thou  canst  tell 
How  much  in  thee  is  ill  or  well ; 
Nor  for  thy  neighbour  nor  for  thee, 


EARLY  POEMS.  13 

Be  sure,  was  life  designed  to  be 
A  draught  of  dull  complacency.    . 
One  Power  too  is  it,  who  doth  give 
The  food  without  us,  and  within 
The  strength  that  makes  it  nutritive  ; 
He  bids  the  dry  bones  rise  and  live. 
And  e'en  in  hearts  depraved  to  sin 
Some  sudden,  gracious  influence, 
May  give  the  long-lost  good  again. 
And  wake  within  the  dormant  sense 
And  love  of  good ;  —  for  mortal  men. 
So  but  thou  strive,  thou  soon  shalt  see 
Defeat  itself  is  victory. 

So  be  it :  yet,  0  Good  and  Great, 

In  whom  in  this  bedarkened  state 

I  fain  am  struggling  to  believe. 

Let  me  not  ever  cease  to  grieve. 

Nor  lose  the  consciousness  of  ill 

Within  me ;  —  and  refusing  still 

To  recognise  in  things  around 

What  cannot  truly  there  be  found. 

Let  me  not  feel,  nor  be  it  true. 

That,  while  each  daily  task  I  do, 

I  still  am  giving  day  by  day 

My  precious  things  within  away 

(Those  thou  didst  give  to  keep  as  thine), 

And  casting,  do  whate'er  I  may. 

My  heavenly  pearls  to  earthly  swine. 

1841. 


A  SONG   OF  AUTUMN. 

My  wind  is  turned  to  bitter  north, 

That  was  so  soft  a  south  before ; 
My  sky,  that  shone  so  sunny  bright. 

With  foggy  gloom  is  clouded  o'er : 
My  gay  green  leaves  are  yellow-black, 

Upon  the  dank  autumnal  floor ; 
For  love,  departed  once,  comes  back 

No  more  again,  no  more. 


14  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

A  roofless  ruin  lies  my  home, 

For  winds  to  blow  and  rains  to  pour ; 
One  frosty  night  befell,  and  lo  ! 

I  find  my  summer  days  are  o'er : 
The  heart  bereaved,  of  why  and  how 

Unknowing,  knows  that  yet  before 
It  had  what  e'en  to  Memory  now 

Eeturns  no  more,  no  more. 


TO    KoXoV. 


I  HAVE  seen  higher,  holier  things  than  these, 
And  therefore  must  to  these  refuse  my  heart. 

Yet  am  I  panting  for  a  little  ease ; 
I'll  take,  and  so  depart. 

Ah,  hold !  the  heart  is  prone  to  fall  away. 
Her  high  and  cherished  visions  to  forget, 

And  if  thou  takest,  how  wilt  thou  repay 
So  vast,  so  dread  a  debt  ? 

How  will  the  heart,  which  now  thou  trustest,  then 
Corrupt,  yet  in  corruption  mindful  yet. 

Turn  with  sharp  stings  upon  itself !    Again, 
Bethink  thee  of  the  debt ! 

—  Hast  thou  seen  higher,  holier  things  than  these, 
And  therefore  must  to  these  thy  heart  refuse  ? 

With  the  true  best,  alack,  how  ill  agrees 
That  best  that  thou  wouldst  choose ! 

The  Sumraum  Pulchrum  rests  in  heaven  above ; 

Do  thou,  as  best  thou  mayst,  thy  duty  do : 
Amid  the  things  allowed  thee  live  and  love  j 

Some  day  thou  shalt  it  view. 
1841. 


EARLY  POEMS.  15 


Xpvaea  kX?;s   ctti  yAcjo"cra. 

If,  when  in  cheerless  wanderings,  dull  and  cold, 
A  sense  of  human  kindliness  hath  found  us, 

We  seem  to  have  around  us 

An  atmosphere  all  gold, 
'Midst  darkest  shades  a  halo  rich  of  shine. 
An  element  that,  while  the  bleak  wind  bloweth, 

On  the  rich  heart  bestoweth 

Imbreathed  draughts  of  wine ; 
Heaven  guide,  the  cup  be  not,  as  chance  may  be, 
To  some  vain  mate  given  up  as  soon  as  tasted ! 

No,  nor  on  thee  be  wasted. 

Thou  trifler.  Poesy ! 
Heaven  grant  the  manlier  heart,  that  timely,  ere 
Youth  fly,  with  life's  real  tempest  would  be  coping ; 

The  fruit  of  dreamy  hoping 

Is,  waking,  blank  despair. 
1841. 


THE  SILVER  WEDDING.^ 

The  Silver  Wedding !  on  some  pensive  ear 

From  towers  remote  as  sound  the  silvery  bells, 

To-day  from  one  far  unforgotten  year 
A  silvery  faint  memorial  music  swells. 

And  silver-pale  the  dim  memorial  light 
Of  musing  age  on  youthful  joys  is  shed, 

The  golden  joys  of  fancy's  dawning  bright. 
The  golden  bliss  of,  Woo'd,  and  won,  and  wed. 

Ah,  golden  then,  but  silver  now !     In  sooth, 

The  years  that  pale  the  cheek,  that  dim  the  eyes, 

And  silver  o'er  the  golden  hairs  of  youth. 
Less  prized  can  make  its  only  priceless  prize. 

1  This  was  written  for  the  twenty-fifth  wedding-day  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Walrond,  of  Calder  Park. 


16  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Not  so;  the  voice  this  silver  name  that  gave 
To  this,  the  ripe  and  unenfeebled  date, 

For  steps  together  tottering  to  the  grave, 
Hath  bid  the  perfect  golden  title  wait. 

Rather,  if  silver  this,  if  that  be  gold. 

From  good  to  better  changed  on  age's  track, 

Must  it  as  baser  metal  be  enrolled, 

That  day  of  days,  a  quarter-century  back. 

Yet  ah,  its  hopes,  its  joys,  were  golden  too, 
But  golden  of  the  fairy  gold  of  dreams : 

To  feel  is  but  to  dream ;  until  we  do. 

There's  nought  that  is,  and  all  we  see  but  seems. 

What  was  or  seemed  it  needed  cares  and  tears, 
And  deeds  together  done,  and' trials  past. 

And  all  the  subtlest  alchemy  of  years, 

To  change  to  genuine  substance  here  at  last. 

Your  fairy  gold  is  silver  sure  to-day ; 

Your  ore  by  crosses  many,  many  a  loss, 
As  in  refiners'  fires,  hath  purged  away 

What  erst  it  had  of  earthly  human  dross. 

Come  years  as  many  yet,  and  as  they  go. 
In  human  life's  great  crucible  shall  they 

Transmute,  so  potent  are  the  spells  they  know, 
Into  pure  gold  the  silver  of  to-day. 

Strange  metallurge  is  human  life !     'Tis  true ; 

And  Use  and  Wont  in  many  a  gorgeous  case 
Full  specious  fair  for  casual  outward  view 

Electrotype  the  sordid  and  the  base. 

Nor  lack  who  praise,  avowed,  the  spurious  ware, 
Who  bid  young  hearts  the  one  true  love  forgo. 

Conceit  to  feed,  or  fancy  light  as  air. 
Or  greed  of  pelf  and  precedence  and  show. 

True,  false,  as  one  to  casual  eyes  appear, 
To  read  men  truly  men  may  hardly  learn ; 

Yet  doubt  it  not  that  wariest  glance  would  liore 

Faith,  Hope  and  Love,  the  true  Tower-stamp  discern. 


EARLY  POEMS.  17 


Come  yeai's  again !  as  many  yet !  and  purge 
Less  precious  earthier  elements  away, 

And  gently  changed  at  life's  extremest  verge, 
Bring  bright  in  gold  your  perfect  fiftieth  day 


That  sight  may  children  see  and  parents  shoAV ! 

If  not  —  yet  earthly  chains  of  metal  true, 
By  love  and  duty  wrought  and  fixed  below, 

Elsewhere  will  shine,  transformed,  celestial-new ; 

Will  shine  of  gold,  whose  essence,  Aeavenly  bright, 
No  doubt-damps  tarnish,  worldly  passions  fray; 

Gold  into  gold  there  mirrored,  light  in  light, 
Shall  gleam  in  glories  of  a  deathless  day. 

1845. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  WORLD  AND  OF  THE  SOUL. 


Why  should  I  say  I  see  the  things  I  see  not  ? 

Why  be  and  be  not  ? 
Show  love  for  that  I  love  not,  and  fear  for  what  I  fear 

not? 
And  dance  about  to  music  that  I  hear  not  ? 
Who  standeth  still  i'  the  street 
Shall  be  hustled  and  justled  about ; 
And  he  that  stops  i'  the  dance  shall  be  spurned  by  the 

dancers'  feet,  — 
Shall  be  shoved  and  be  twisted  by  all  he  shall  meet, 
And  shall  raise  up  an  outcry  and  rout ; 
And  the  partner,  too,  — 
What's  the  partner  to  do  ? 
While  all  the  while  'tis  but,  perchance,  an  humming  in 
mine  ear, 
That  yet  anon  shall  hear, 
And  I  anon,  the  music  in  my  soul, 
In  a  moment  read  the  whole ; 
The  music  in  my  heart, 
Joyously  take  my  part. 
And  hand  in  hand,  and  heart  with  heart,  with  these  re- 
treat, advance ; 


18  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  borne  on  wings  of  wavy  sound, 

Whirl  with  these  around,  around. 
Who  here  are  living  in  the  living  dance ! 

Why  forfeit  that  fair  chance  ? 

Till  that  arrive,  till  thou  awake. 

Of  these,  my  soul,  thy  music  make, 

And  keep  amid  the  throng. 
And  turn  as  they  shall  turn,  and  bound  as  they  are 

bounding,  — 
Alas !  alas  !  alas !  and  what  if  all  along 

The  music  is  not  sounding  ? 

II. 

Are  there  not,  then,  two  musics  unto  men  ?  — 

One  loud  and  bold  and  coarse. 

And  overpowering  still  perforce 

All  tone  and  tune  beside ;  « 

Yet  in  despite  its  pride 
Only  of  fumes  of  foolish  fancy  bred. 
And  sounding  solely  in  the  sounding  head : 

The  other,  soft  and  low. 

Stealing  whence  we  not  know. 
Painfully  heard,  and  easily  forgot. 
With  pauses  oft  and  many  a  silence  strange 
(And  silent  oft  it  seems,  when  silent  it  is  not), 
Revivals  too  of  unexpected  change : 
Haply  thou  think'st  'twill  never  be  begun. 
Or  that 't  has  come,  and  been,  and  passed  away : 

Yet  turn  to  other  none,  — 

Turn  not,  oh,  turn  not  thou ! 
But  listen,  listen,  listen,  —  if  haply  be  heard  it  may ; 
Listen,  listen,  listen,  —  is  it  not  sounding  now  ? 

III. 

Yea,  and  as  thought  of  some  departed  friend 
By  death  or  distance  parted  will  descend. 
Severing,  in  crowded  rooms  ablaze  with  light. 
As  by  a  magic  screen,  the  seer  from  the  sight 
(Palsying  the  nerves  that  intervene 
The  eye  and  central  sense  between) ; 

So  may  the  ear, 

1  Tearing  not  hear, 


EARLY  POEMS.  19 

Though  drums  do  roll,  and  pipes  and  cymbals  ring ; 
So  the  bare  conscience  of  the  better  thing 
Unfelt,  unseen,  unimaged,  all  unknown, 
May  fix  the  entranced  soul  'mid  multitudes  alone. 


LOVE,  NOT  DUTY. 

Thought  may  well  be  ever  ranging, 
And  opinion  ever  changing. 
Task-work  be,  though  ill  begun, 
Dealt  with  by  experience  better ; 
By  the  law  and  by  the  letter 
Duty  done  is  duty  done : 
Do  it,  Time  is  on  the  wing ! 

Hearts,  'tis  quite  another  thing. 
Must  or  once  for  all  be  given, 
Or  must  not  at  all  be  given ; 
Hearts,  'tis  quite  another  thing ! 

To  bestow  the  soul  away 

Is  an  idle  duty-play !  — 

Why,  to  trust  a  life-long  bliss 

To  caprices  of  a  day. 

Scarce  were  more  depraved  than  this ! 

Men  and  maidens,  see  you  mind  it ; 
Show  of  love,  where'er  you  find  it, 
Look  if  duty  lurk  behind  it ! 
Duty-fancies,  urging  on 
Whither  love  had  never  gone ! 

Loving  —  if  the  answering  breast 
Seem  not  to  be  thus  possessed. 
Still  in  hoping  have  a  care ; 
If  it  do,  beware,  beware ! 
But  if  in  yourself  you  find  it, 
Above  all  things  —  mind  it,  mind  it ! 
1841. 


20  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 


LOVE  KSiD  REASON. 

When  panting  sighs  the  bosom  fill, 

And  hands  by  chance  united  thrill 

At  once  with  one  delicious  pain 

The  pulses  and  the  nerves  of  twain ; 

When  eyes  that  erst  could  meet  with  ease, 

Do  seek,  yet,  seeking,  shyly  shun 

Extatic  conscious  uuison,  — 

The  sure  beginnings,  say,  be  these 

Prelusive  to  the  strain  of  love 

Which  angels  sing  in  heaven  above  ? 

Or  is  it  but  the  vulgar  tune, 
Which  all  that  breathe  beneath  the  moon 
So  accurately  learn  —  so  soon  ? 
With  variations  duly  blent ; 
Yet  that  same  song  to  all  intent, 
Set  for  the  finer  instrument ; 
It  is ;  and  it  would  sound  the  same 
In  beasts,  wei-e  not  the  bestial  frame, 
Less  subtly  organised,  to  blame ; 
And  but  that  soul  and  spirit  add 
To  pleasures,  even  base  and  bad, 
A  zest  the  soulless  never  had. 

It  may  be  —  well  indeed  I  deem ; 
But  what  if  sympathy,  it  seem, 
And  admiration  and  esteem, 
Commingling  therewithal,  do  make 
The  passion  prized  for  Reason's  sake  ? 
Yet,  when  my  heart  would  fain  rejoice, 
A  small  expostulating  voice 
Falls  in  ;  Of  this  thou  wilt  not  take 
Thy  one  irrevocable  choice  ? 
In  accent  tremulous  and  thin 
I  hear  high  Prudence  deep  within. 
Pleading  the  bitter,  bitter  sting, 
Should  slow-maturing  seasons  bring, 
Too  late,  the  veritable  thing. 
For  if  (the  Poet's  tale  of  bliss) 


EARLY  POEMS.  21 

A' love,  wherewith  commeasTired  this 
Is  weak  and  beggarly,  and  none, 
Exist  a  treasure  to  be  won, 
And  if  the  vision,  though  it  stay, 
Be  yet  for  an  appointed  day,  — 
This  choice,  if  made,  this  deed,  if  done, 
The  memory  of  this  present  past. 
With  vague  foreboding  might  o'ercast 
The  heart,  or  madden  it  at  last. 

Let  Reason  first  her  office  ply ; 
Esteem,  and  admiration  high. 
And  mental,  moral  sympathy, 
Exist  they  first,  nor  be  they  brought, 
By  self-deceiving  afterthought,  — 
What  if  an  halo  interfuse 
With  these  again  its  opal  hues. 
That  all  o'erspreading  and  o'erlying, 
Transmuting,  mingling,  glorifying. 
About  the  beauteous  various  whole, 
With  beaming  smile  do  dance  and  quiver ; 
Yet,  is  that  halo  of  the  soul  ?  — 
Or  is  it,  as  may  sure  be  said, 
Phosphoric  exhalation  bred 
Of  vapour,  steaming  from  the  bed 
Of  Fancy's  brook,  or  Passion's  river  ? 
So  when,  as  will  be  by  and  by, 
The  stream  is  waterless  and  dry. 
This  halo  and  its  hues  will  die; 
And  though  the  soul  contented  rest 
With  those  substantial  blessings  blest, 
Will  not  a  longing,  half  confest. 
Betray  that  this  is  not  the  love, 
The  gift  for  which  all  gifts  above 
Him  praise  we,  Who  is  Love,  the  Giver  ? 

I  cannot  say  —  the  things  are  good : 
Bread  is  it,  if  not  angels'  food ; 
But  Love  ?     Alas  !  I  cannot  say ; 
A  glory  on  the  vision  lay ; 
A  light  of  more  than  mortal  day 
About  it  played,  upon  it  rested  ; 
It  did  not,  faltering  and  weak, 


22  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Beg  Reason  on  its  side  to  speak : 

Itself  was  Reason,  or,  if  not, 

Sucli  substitute  as  is,  I  wot, 

Of  serapli-kind  tlie  loftier  lot ;  — 

Itself  was  of  itself  attested ;  — 

To  processes  that,  hard  and  dry, 

Elaborate  truth  from  fallacy, 

With  modes  intuitive  succeeding, 

Including  those  and  superseding ; 

Reason  sublimed  and  Love  most  high 

It  was,  a  life  that  cannot  die, 

A  dream  of  glory  most  exceeding. 

1844. 


'O  ©cos  fi€Ta  crov  !  ^ 

*  "W*  Tr  tT 

Farewell,  my  Highland  lassie !  when  the  year  returns 

around. 
Be  it  Greece,  or  be  it  Norway,  where  my  vagrant  feet  are 

found, 
I  shall  call  to  mind  the  place,  I  shall  call  to  mind  the  day. 
The  day  that's  gone  forever,  and  the  glen  that's  far  away; 
I  shall  mind  me,  be  it  Rhine  or  Rhone,  Italian  land  or 

France, 
Of  the  laughings  and  the  whispers,  of  the  pipings  and  the 

dance ; 
I  shall  see  thy  soft  brown  eyes  dilate  to  wakening  woman 

thought. 
And  whiter  still  the  white  cheek  grow  to  which  the  blush 

was  brought ; 
And  oh,  with  mine  commixing  I  thy  breath  of  life  shall  feel, 
Andclaspthy  shyly  passive  hands  in  joyous  Highland  reel; 
I  shall  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  in  sequence  sadly  true. 
Shall  repeat  the  bitter-sweet  of  the  lingering  last  adieu; 
I  shall  seem  as  now  to  leave  thee,  with  the  kiss  upon  the 

brow, 
And  the  fervent  benediction  of —  'O  ©cos  ficra  crov! 

Ah  me,  my  Highland  lassie !  though  in  winter  drear  and 
long 

1  Ho  Theos  meta  sou  —  God  be  with  you  I 


EARLY  POEMS.  23 

Deep  arose  the  heavy  snows,  and  the  stormy  winds  were 

strong, 
Though  the  rain,  in  summer's  brightest,  it  were  raining 

every  day. 
With  worldly  comforts  few  and  far,  how  glad  were  I  to 

stay! 
I  fall  to  sleep  with  dreams  of  life  in  some  black  bothie 

spent. 
Coarse  poortith's  ware  thou  changing  there  to  gold  of 

pure  content, 
With  barefoot  lads  and  lassies  round,  and  thee  the  cheery 

wife. 
In  the  braes  of  old  Lochaber  a  laborious  homely  life ; 
But  I  wake  —  to  leave  thee,  smiling,  with  the  kiss  upon 

the  brow. 
And  the  peaceful  benediction  of  —  'O  0£os  fiera  a-ov ! 


WIEKUNG  IN  DER  FERNE. 

When  the  dews  are  earliest  falling. 
When  the  evening  glen  is  grey, 
Ere  thou  lookest,  ere  thou  speakest, 
My  beloved, 

I  depart,  and  I  return  to  thee,  — 
Return,  return,  return. 

Dost  thou  watch  me  while  I  traverse 
Haunts  of  men,  beneath  the  sun  — 
Dost  thou  list  while  I  bespeak  them 
With  a  voice  whose  cheer  is  thine  ? 

0  my  brothers  !  men,  my  brothers. 
You  are  mine,  and  I  am  yours; 

1  am  yours  to  cheer  and  succour, 
I  am  yours  for  hope  and  aid : 

Lo,  my  hand  to  raise  and  stay  you, 
Lo,  my  arm  to  guard  and  keep, 
My  voice  to  rouse  and  warn  you, 
And  my  heart  to  warm  and  calm ; 
My  heart  to  lend  the  life  it  owes 
To  her  that  is  not  here. 
In  the  poAver  of  her  that  dwelleth 


24  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Where  you  know  not  —  no,  nor  guess  not 
Whom  you  see  not ;  unto  whom,  — 
Ere  the  evening  star  hath  sunken, 
Ere  the  glow-worm  lights  its  lamp. 
Ere  the  wearied  workman  slumbers,  — 
I  return,  return,  return. 


CTTt  AaTfKa. 

On  the  mountain,  in  the  woodland, 

In  the  shaded  secret  dell, 

I  have  seen  thee,  I  have  met  thee! 

In  the  soft  ambrosial  hours  of  night, 

In  darkness  silent  sweet, 

I  beheld  thee,  I  was  with  thee, 
I  was  thine,  and  thou  wert  mine ! 

When  I  gazed  in  palace-chambers. 

When  I  trod  the  rustic  dance. 

Earthly  maids  were  fair  to  look  on, 

Earthly  maidens'  hearts  were  kind : 

Fair  to  look  on,  fair  to  love : 

But  the  life,  the  life  to  me, 

'Twas  the  death,  the  death  to  them, 

In  the  spying,  prying,  prating 

Of  a  curious  cruel  world. 

At  a  touch,  a  breath  they  fade. 

They  languish,  droop,  and  die; 

Yea,  the  juices  change  to  sourness. 

And  the  tints  to  clammy  brown ; 

And  the  softness  luito  foulness. 

And  the  odour  unto  stench. 

Let  alone  and  leave  to  bloom ; 

Pass  aside,  nor  make  to  die, 

—  In  the  woodland,  on  the  mountain. 

Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  thine. 

So  I  passed.  —  Amid  the  uplands, 
In  the  forests,  on  wliose  skirts 
Pace  unstartled,  feed  unfearing 
Do  the  roe-deer  and  the  red. 


.     EARLY  POEMS.  25 

While  I  hungered,  while  I  thirsted, 
While  the  night  was  deepest  dark, 
Who  was  I,  that  thou  shouldst  meet  me  ? 
Who  was  I,  thou  didst  not  pass  ? 
Who  was  I,  that  I  should  say  to  thee 
Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  thine  ? 

To  the  air  from  whence  thou  earnest 
Thou  returnest,  thou  art  gone; 
Self-created,  discreated, 
Re-created,  ever  fresh, 

Ever  young ! 

As  a  lake  its  mirrored  mountains 
At  a  moment,  unregretting, 
Unresisting,  unreclaiming, 
Without  preface,  without  question, 
On  the  silent  shifting  levels 
Lets  depart, 

Shows,  effaces  and  replaces ! 
For  what  is,  anon  is  not ; 
What  has  been,  again  's  to  be, 
Ever  new  and  ever  young 
Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  thine. 

Art  thou  she  that  walks  the  skies, 
That  rides  the  starry  night? 

I  know  not 

For  my  meanness  dares  not  claim  the  truth 

Thy  loveliness  declares. 

But  the  face  thou  show'st  the  world  is  not 

The  face  thou  show'st  to  me ; 

And  the  look  that  I  have  looked  in 

Is  of  none  but  me  beheld. 

I  know  not ;  but  I  know 

I  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine. 

And  I  watch :  the  orb  behind 
As  it  fleeteth,  faint  and  fair 
In  the  depth  of  azure  night, 
In  the  violet  blank,  I  trace 
By  an  outline  faint  and  fair 
Her  whom  none  but  I  beheld. 
By  her  orb  she  nioveth  slow, 


26  CLOUGWS  POEMS.  • 

Graceful-slow,  serenely  firm, 
Maiden-Goddess  !  while  her  robe 
The  adoring  planets  kiss. 
And  I  too  cower  and  ask, 
Wert  thou  mine,  and  was  I  thine  ? 

Hath  a  cloud  o'ercast  the  sky  ? 

Is  it  cloud  upon  the  mountain-sides 

Or  haze  of  dewy  river-banks 

Below  ?  — 

Or  around  me. 

To  enfold  me,  to  conceal, 

Doth  a  mystic  magic  veil, 

A  celestial  separation. 

As  of  curtains  hymeneal, 

Undiscerned  yet  all  excluding. 

Interpose  ? 

Tor  the  pine-tree  boles  are  dimmer, 

And  the  stars  bedimmed  above ; 

In  perspective  brief,  uncertain. 

Are  the  forest-alleys  closed, 

And  to  whispers  indistinctest 

The  resounding  torrents  lulled. 

Can  it  be,  and  can  it  be  ? 

Upon  Earth  and  here  below. 

In  the  woodland  at  my  side 

Thou  art  with  me,  thou  art  here. 

'Twas  the  vapour  of  the  perfume 

Of  the  presence  that  should  be, 

That  enwrapt  me  ? 

That  enwraps  us, 

0  my  Goddess,  0  my  Queen ! 

And  I  turn 

At  thy  feet  to  fall  before  thee ; 

And  thou  wilt  not : 

At  thy  feet  to  kneel  and  reach  and  kiss  thy 

finger-tips ; 
And  tliou  wilt  not : 
And  I  feel  thine  arms  that  stay  me, 
And  I  feel 

0  mine  own,  mine  own,  mine  own, 

1  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine ! 


EARLY  POEMS.  27 


A   PKOTEST. 


Light  words  they  were,  and  lightly,  falsely  said : 

She  heard  them,  and  she  started,  —  and  she  rose, 

As  in  the  act  to  speak ;  the  sudden  thought 

And  unconsidered  impulse  led  her  on. 

In  act  to  speak  she  rose,  but  with  the  sense 

Of  all  the  eyes  of  that  mixed  company 

Now  suddenly  turned  upon  her,  some  with  age 

Hardened  and  dulled,  some  cold  and  critical ; 

Some  in  whom  vapours  of  their  own  conceit, 

As  moist  malarious  mists  the  heavenly  stars, 

Still  blotted  out  their  good,  the  best  at  best 

By  frivolous  laugh  and  prate  conventional 

All  too  untuned  for  all  she  thought  to  say  — 

With  such  a  thought  the  mantling  blood  to  her  cheek 

Flushed-up,  and  o'er-flushed  itself,  blank  night  her  soul 

Made  dark,  and  in  her  all  her  purpose  swooned. 

She  stood  as  if  for  sinking.     Yet  anon 

With  recollections  clear,  august,  sublime. 

Of  God's  great  truth,  and  right  immutable, 

Which,  as  obedient  vassals,  to  her  mind 

Came  summoned  of  her  will,  in  self-negation 

Quelling  her  troublous  earthy  consciousness, 

She  queened  it  o'er  her  weakness.     At  the  spell 

Back  rolled  the  ruddy  tide,  and  leaves  her  cheek 

Paler  than  erst,  and  yet  not  ebbs  so  far 

But  that  one  pulse  of  one  indignant  thought 

Might  hurry  it  hither  in  flood.     So  as  she  stood 

She  spoke.     God  in  her  spoke  and  made  her  heard. 

1845. 


SIC  ITUR. 


As,  at  a  railway  junction,  men 
Who  came  together,  taking  then 
One  the  train  up,  one  down,  again 

Meet  never !     Ah,  much  more  as  they 
Who  take  one  street's  two  sides,  and  say 
Hard  parting  words,  but  walk  one  way : 


28  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Though  moving  other  mates  between, 
While  carts  and  coaches  intervene, 
Each  to  the  other  goes  unseen ; 

Yet  seldom,  surely,  shall  there  lack 
Knowledge  they  walk  not  back  to  back, 
But  with  an  unity  of  track. 

Where  common  dangers  each  attend, 
And  common  hopes  their  guidance  lend 
To  light  them  to  the  self-same  end. 

Whether  he  then  shall  cross  to  thee, 

Or  thou  go  thither,  or  it  be 

Some  midway  point,  ye  yet  shall  see 

Each  other,  yet  again  shall  meet. 

Ah,  joy  !  when  with  the  closing  street, 

Forgivingly  at  last  ye  greet ! 

1846. 


PAETING. 


0  TELL  me,  friends,  while  yet  we  part, 
And  heart  can  yet  be  heard  of  heart, 
O  tell  me  then,  for  what  is  it 
Our  early  plan  of  life  we  quit ; 
From  all  our  old  intentions  range. 
And  why  does  all  so  wholly  change  ? 
0  tell  me,  friends,  while  yet  we  part  ? 

0  tell  me,  friends,  while  yet  we  part, — 
The  rays  that  from  the  centre  start 
Within  the  orb  of  one  warm  sun, 
Unless  I  err,  have  once  begun,  — 
Why  is  it  thus  they  still  diverge  ? 
And  whither  tends  the  course  they  urge  ? 
O  tell  me,  friends,  while  yet  we  part ! 

0  tell  me,  friends,  while  yet  ye  hear,  — 
May  it  not  be,  some  coming  year. 


EARLY  POEMS.  29 

These  ancient  paths  that  here  divide 
Shall  yet  again  run  side  by  side, 
And  you  from  there,  and  I  from  here, 
All  on  a  sudden  reappear  ? 
O  tell  me,  friends,  while  yet  ye  hear ! 

0  tell  me,  friends,  ye  hardly  hear,  — 

And  if  indeed  ye  did,  I  fear 

Ye  would  not  say,  ye  would  not  speak,  — 

Are  you  so  strong,  am  I  so  weak, 

And  yet,  how  much  so  e'er  I  yearn, 

Can  I  not  follow,  nor  you  turn  ? 

0  tell  me,  friends,  ye  hardly  hear ! 

0  tell  me,  friends,  ere  words  are  o'er ! 
There  's  something  in  me  sad  and  sore 
Repines,  and  underneath  my  eyes 

1  feel  a  somewhat  that  would  rise,  — 
0  tell  me,  0  my  friends,  and  you, 
Do  you  feel  nothing  like  it  too  ? 

0  tell  me,  friends,  ere  words  are  o'er ! 

0  tell  me,  friends  that  are  no  more, 
Do  you,  too,  think  ere  it  is  o'er 
Old  times  shall  yet  come  round  as  erst, 
And  we  be  friends,  as  we  were  first  ? 
Or  do  you  judge  that  all  is  vain. 
Except  that  rule  that  none  complain  ? 
O  tell  me,  friends  that  are  no  more ! 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS. 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 


30  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared ! 

To  veer,  how  vain !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks  !     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides  • 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  0  blithe  breeze ;  and  0  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there ! 


•WEN  GOTT  BETRCJGT,  1ST  WOHL  BETEOGEN.' 

Is  it  true,  ye  gods,  who  treat  us 

As  the  gambling  fool  is  treated ; 

0  ye,  who  ever  cheat  us. 

And  let  us  feel  we're  cheated ! 

Is  it  true  that  poetical  power. 

The  gift  of  heaven,  the  dower 

Of  Apollo  and  the  Nine, 

The  inborn  sense,  'the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine,' 

All  we  glorify  and  bless 

In  our  rapturous  exaltiition. 

All  invention,  and  creation, 

Exuberance  of  fancy,  and  sublime  imagination, 

All  a  poet's  fame  is  built  on, 


EARLY  POEMS.  31 

The  fame  of  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Of  Wordswortli,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Is  in  reason's  grave  precision, 
Nothing  more,  nothing  less, 
Than  a  peculiar  conformation. 
Constitution,  and  condition 
Of  the  brain  and  of  the  belly  ? 
Is  it  true,  ye  gods  who  cheat  us  ? 
And  that 's  the  way  ye  treat  us  ? 

Oh  say  it,  all  who  think  it, 
Look  straight,  and  never  blink  it ! 
If  it  is  so,  let  it  be  so. 
And  we  will  all  agree  so ; 
But  the  plot  has  counterplot, 
It  may  be,  and  yet  be  not. 


POEMS    ON    RELIGIOUS   AND    BIBLICAL 
SUBJECTS. 


FKAGMENTS  OF  THE  MYSTEKY  OF  THE  FALL.^ 

Scene  I. 
Adam  and  Eve. 

Adam.     Since  that  last  evening  we  have  fallen  indeed ! 
Yes,  we  have  fallen,  my  Eve !     O  yes  !  — 
One,  two,  and  three,  and  four; — the  Appetite, 
The  Enjoyment,  the  aftervoid,  the  thinking  of  it  — 
Specially  the  latter  two,  most  specially  the  last. 
There,  in  synopsis,  see,  you  have  it  all : 
Come,  let  us  go  and  work ! 

Is  it  not  enough  ? 
What,  is  there  three,  four,  five  ? 

Eve.  Oh,  guilt,  guilt,  guilt ! 

Adam.     Be   comforted ;   muddle   not  your  soul  with 
doubt. 
'Tis  done,  it  was  to  be  done ;  if,  indeed,   . 
Other  way  than  this  there  was,  I  cannot  say : 
This  was  one  way,  and  a  way  was  needs  to  be  foimd. 
That  which  we  were  we  could  no  more  remain 
Than  in  the  moist  provocative  vernal  mould 
A  seed  its  suckers  close  and  rest  a  seed ; 
We  were  to  grow.     Necessity  on  us  lay 
This  way  or  that  to  move ;  necessity,  too, 
Not  to  be  over  careful  this  or  that. 
So  only  move  we  should. 

Come,  my  wife, 

*  The  manuscript  of  this  poem  is  very  imperfect,  and  bears  no 
title. 

33 


34  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

We  were  to  grow,  and  grow  I  thiuk  we  may, 
And  yet  bear  goodly  fruit. 

Eve.  Oh,  guilt !  oh,  guilt ! 

Adam.     You  weary  nie  with  your  '  Oh,  guilt !  oh, 
guilt ! ' 
Peace  to  the  senseless  iteration.     What ! 
Because  I  plucked  an  apple  from  a  twig 
Be  damned  to  death  eterne  !  parted  from  Good, 
Enchained  to  111  !     No,  by  the  God  of  gods ; 
No,  by  the  living  will  within  my  breast, 
It  cannot  be,  and  shall  not ;  and  if  this, 
This  guilt  of  your  distracted  fantasy. 
Be  our  experiment's  sum,  thank  God  for  guilt, 
Which  makes  me  free ! 

But  thou,  poor  wife  !  poor  mother,  shall  I  say  ? 
Big  with  the  first  maternity  of  man, 
Draw'st  from  thy  teeming  womb  thick  fancies  fond. 
That  with  confusion  mix  thy  delicate  brain  ; 
Fondest  of  which  and  cloudiest  call  the  dream 
(Yea,  my  beloved,  hear  me,  it  is  a  dream) 
Of  the  serpent,  and  the  apple,  and  the  curse  : 
Fondest  of  dreams  and  cloudiest  of  clouds. 

Well  I  remember,  in  our  marriage  bower. 
How  in  the  dewiest  balminess  of  rest. 
Inarmed  as  we  lay,  sudden  at  once 
Up  from  my  side  you  started,  screaming  '  Guilt ! ' 
And  '  Lost !  lost !  lost ! '     I  on  my  elbow  rose. 
And  rubbed  unwilling  eyes,  and  cried,  '  Eve !  Eve ! 
My  love  !  my  wife  ! '  and  knit  anew  the  embrace, 
And  drew  thee  to  me  close,  and  calmed  thy  fear, 
And  wooed  thee  back  to  sleep.     In  vain ;  for  soon 
I  felt  thee  gone,  and  opening  widest  eyes. 
Beheld  thee  kneeling  on  the  turf,  hands  now 
Clenched  and  uplifted  high,  now  vainly  outspread 
To  hide  a  burning  face  and  streaming  eyes 
And  pale  small  lips  that  muttered  faintly,  'Death.' 
And  thou  wouldst  fain  depart ;  thou  saidst  the  place 
Was  for  the  like  of  us  too  good :  we  left 
The  pleasant  woodland  shades,  and  passed  abroad 
Into  this  naked  champaign  —  glorious  soil 
For  digging  and  for  delving,  but  indeed, 
Until  I  killed  a  beast  or  two,  and  spread 
Skins  upon  sticks  to  make  our  palace  here. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  35 

A  residence  sadly  exposed  to  wind  and  rain. 

But  I  in  all  submit  to  you  ;  and  then 

I  turned  out  too,  and  trudged  a  furlong's  space, 

Till  you  fell  tired  and  fain  would  wait  for  morn. 

So  as  our  nightly  journey  we  began, 

Because  the  autumnal  fruitage  that  had  fallen 

From  trees  whereunder  we  had  slept,  lay  thick, 

And  we  had  eaten  overnight,  and  seen. 

And  saw  again  by  starlight  when  you  woke  me, 

A  sly  and  harmless  snake  glide  by  our  couch ; 

And  because,  some  few  hours  before,  a  lamb 

Fell  from  a  rock  and  broke  its  neck,  and  I 

Had  answered,  to  your  wonder,  that  'twas  dead, 

Forsooth  the  molten  lava  of  your  fright 

Forth  from  your  brain,  its  crater,  hurrying  down, 

Took  the  chance  mould  ;  the  vapour  blowing  by 

Caught  and  reflected  back  some  random  shapes. 

A  vague  and  queasy  dream  was  obstinate 

In  waking  thoughts  to  find  itself  renewed, 

And  lo !  the  mighty  Mythus  of  the  Fall ! 

Nay,  smile  with  me,  sweet  mother  ! 

Eve.  Guilt !  oh,  guilt ! 

Adam.     Peace,  woman,  peace ;  I  go. 

Eve.  N'ay,  Adam,  nay ; 

Hear  me,  —  I  am  not  dreaming,  am  not  crazed. 
Did  not  yourself  confess  that  we  are  changed  ? 
Do  not  you  too  ? 

Adam.  Do  not  I  too  ?     Well,  well. 

Listen  !     I  too  when  homeward,  weary  of  toil. 
Through  the  dark  night  I  have  wandered  in  rain  and  wind, 
Bewildered,  haply  scared,  I  too  have  lost  heart. 
And  deemed  all  space  with  angry  power  replete. 
Angry  ;  almighty — and  panic-stricken  have  cried, 
'  What  have  I  done  ?  '  *  What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? ' 
Or  with  the  coward's  '  No,  I  did  not,  I  will  not,' 
Belied  my  own  soul's  self.     I  too  have  heard. 
And  listened,  too,  to  a  voice  that  in  my  ear 
Hissed  the  temptation  to  curse  God,  or  worse. 
And  yet  more  frequent,  curse  myself  and  die ; 
Until,  in  fine,  I  have  begun  to  half  believe 
Tour  dream  my  dream  too,  and  the  dream  of  both 
No  dream  but  dread  reality  ;  have  shared 
Your  fright ;  e'en  so  share  thou,  sweet  life,  my  hope  ; 


36  CLOUGH'S  POEMS.  * 

I  too,  again,  when  weeds  with  growth  perverse 

Have  choked  my  corn  and  marred  a  season's  toil, 

Have  deemed  I  heard  in  heaven  abroad  a  cry, 

*  Cursed  is  the  ground  for  thy  sake ;  thou  art  cursed.' 

But  oftener  far,  and  stronger  also  far, 

In  consonance  with  all  things  out  and  in, 

I  hear  a  voice  more  searching  bid  me,  '  On ! 

On !  on  !  it  is  the  folly  of  the  child 

To  choose  his  path  and  straightway  think  it  wrong. 

And  turn  right  back  and  lie  on  the  ground  to  weep. 

Forward !  go,  conquer !  work  and  live ! '     Withal 

A  word  comes,  half  command,  half  prophecy, 

'  Forgetting  things  behind  thee,  onward  press 

Unto  the  mark  of  your  high  calling.'     Yea, 

And  voices,  too,  in  woods  and  flowery  fields 

Speak  confidence  from  budding  banks  and  boughs, 

And  tell  me,  '  Live  and  grow,'  and  say,  *  Look  still 

Upward,  spread  outward,  trust,  be  patient,  live;' 

Therefore,  if  weakness  bid  me  curse  and  die, 

I  answer.  No  !  I  will  not  curse  myself. 

Nor  aught  beside ;  I  shall  not  die,  but  live. 

Eve.  Ah  me !  alas !  alas  ! 

More  dismally  in  my  face  stares  the  doubt, 
More  heavily  on  my  heart  weighs  the  world. 
Methinks 

The  questionings  of  ages  yet  to  be. 
The  thinkings  and  cross-thinkings,  self-contempts, 
Self-horror  ;  all  despondencies,  despairs. 
Of  multitudinous  souls  on  souls  to  come. 
In  me  imprisoned  fight,  complain  and  cry. 
Alas! 
Mystery,  mystery,  mystery  evermore. 


Scene  II. 

Adam,  alone. 

Adam.    Misery,  oh  my  misery  !  0  God,  God  ! 
How  could  I  ever,  ever,  could  I  do  it  ? 
Whither  am  I  come  ?  wliere  am  I  ?     O  me,  miserable ! 
My  God,  my  God,  tliat  I  were  back  with  Thee! 
0  fool !  0  fool !  0  irretrievable  act ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  37 

Irretrievable  what,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
What  act,  I  wonder  ?    What  is  it  I  mean  ? 

0  heaven !  the  spirit  holds  me ;  I  must  yield  ; 
Up  in  the  air  he  lifts  me,  casts  me  down ; 
I  writhe  in  vain,  with  limbs  convulsed,  in  the  void. 

Well,  well !  go,  idle  words,  babble  your  will ; 
I  think  the  fit  will  leave  me  ere  I  die. 

Eool,  fool !  where  am  I  ?    O  my  God !     Fool,  fool ! 
Why  did  we  do't  ?    Eve,  Eve !  where  are  you  ?  quick ! 
His  tread  is  in  the  garden !  hither  it  comes ! 
Hide  us,  0  bushes !  and  ye  thick  trees,  hide ! 
He  comes,  on,  on.     Alack,  and  all  these  leaves, 
These  petty,  quivering  and  illusive  blinds, 
Avail  us  nought :  the  light  comes  in  and  in  ; 
Displays  us  to  ourselves ;  displays  —  ah,  shame  — 
Unto  the  inquisitive  day  our  nakedness. 
He  comes ;  He  calls.     The  large  eye  of  His  truth, 
His  full,  severe,  all-comprehending  view, 
Fixes  itself  upon  our  guiltiness. 
O  God,  0  God !  what  are  we  ?  what  shall  we  be  ? 

What  is  all  this  about,  I  wonder  now  ? 
Yet  I  am  better,  too.     I  think  it  will  pass, 

'Tis  going  now,  unless  it  comes  again. 
A  terrible  possession  while  it  lasts. 
Terrible,  surely ;  and  yet  indeed  'tis  true. 
E'en  in  my  utmost  impotence  I  find 
A  fount  of  strange  persistence  in  my  soul ;  ' 
Also,  and  that  perchance  is  stronger  still, 
A  wakeful,  changeless  touchstone  in  my  brain, 
Receiving,  noting,  testing  all  the  while 
These  passing,  curious,  new  phenomena  — 
Painful,  and  yet  not  painful  unto  it. 
Though  tortured  in  the  crucible  I  lie, 
Myself  my  own  experiment,  yet  still 
I,  or  a  something  that  is  I  indeed, 
A  living,  central,  and  more  inmost  I, 
Within  the  scales  of  mere  exterior  me's, 
I,  —  seem  eternal,  0  thou  God,  as  Thou ; 
Have  knowledge  of  the  evil  and  the  good, 
Superior  in  a  higher  good  to  both. 

Well,  well,  well !  it  has  gone  from  me,  though  still 
Its  images  remain  upon  me  whole ; 


38  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  undisplaced  upon  my  mind  I  view 

The  reflex  of  the  total  seizure  past. 

Really  now,  had  I  only  time  and  space, 

And  were  not  troubled  with  this  wife  of  mine, 

And  the  necessity  of  meat  and  drink  — 

I  really  do  believe, 

With  time  and  space  and  proper  quietude, 

I  could  resolve  the  problem  in  my  brain. 

But,  no ;  I  scarce  can  stay  one  moment  more 

To  watch  the  curious  seething  process  out. 

If  I  could  only  dare  to  let  Eve  see 

These  operations,  it  is  like  enough 

Between  us  two  we  two  could  make  it  out. 

But  she  would  be  so  frightened  —  think  it  proof 

Of  all  her  own  imaginings.     'Twill  not  do ; 

So  as  it  is 

I  must  e'en  put  a  cheery  face  on  it, 

Suppress  the  whole,  rub  off  the  unfinished  thoughts, 

For  fear  she  read  them.     O,  'tis  pity  indeed, 

But  confidence  is  the  one  and  main  thing  now : 

Who  loses  confidence,  he  loses  all. 

A  demi-grain  of  cowardice  in  me 

Avowed,  were  poison  to  the  whole  mankind  ; 

When  men  are  plentier,  'twill  be  time  to  try ; 

At  present,  no. 

No; 

Shake  it  all  up  and  go. 

That  is  the  word,  and  that  must  be  obeyed. 

I  must  be  off.     But  yet  again  some  day 

Again  will  I  resume  it ;  if  not  I, 

I  in  some  child  of  late  posterity. 

Yes,  yes,  I  feel  it ;  it  is  here  the  seed. 

Here  in  my  head ;  but,  O  thou  Power  unseen. 

In  whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being, 

Let  it  not  perish ;  grant,  unlost,  unhurt. 

In  long  transmission,  this  rich  atom  some  day, 

In  some  posterity  of  distant  years  — 

How  many  thou  intendest  to  have  I  know  not  — 

In  some  matured  and  procreant  human  brain. 

May  germinate,  burst,  and  rise  into  a  tree. 

No ;  I  shall  not  tell  Eve. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  39 

Scene  III. 

{'Now  the  birth  of  Cain  was  in  this  wise.') 

Adam  and  Eve. 

Eve.     Oh,  Adam,  I  am  comforted  indeed; 
Where  is  he  ?     0  my  little  ofle  ! 
My  heart  is  in  the  garden  as  of  old, 
And  Paradise  come  back. 

Adam.  My  love, 

Blessed  be  this  good  day  to  thee  indeed ; 
Blessed  the  balm  of  joy  unto  thy  soul. 
A  sad  unskilful  nurse  was  I  to  thee ; 
But  nature  teaches  mothers,  I  perceive. 

Eve.     But  you,  my  husband,  you  meantime,  I  feel. 
Join  not  your  perfect  spirit  in  my  joy. 
No ;  your  spirit  mixes  not,  I  feel,  with  mine. 

Adam.     Alas  !  sweet  love,  for  many  a  weary  day, 
You  and  not  I  have  borne  this  heavy  weight : 
How  can  I,  should  I,  might  I  feel  your  bliss, 
Now  heaviness  is  changed  to  glory  ?    Long, 
In  long  and  unparticipated  pangs. 
Your  heart  hath  known  its  own  great  bitterness  : 
How  should,  in  this  its  jubilant  release, 
,  A  stranger  intermeddle  with  its  joy  ? 

Eve.      My  husband,  there  is  more  in  it  than  this  ; 
Nay,  you  are  surely,  positively  sad. 

Adam.   What  if  I  was  (and  yet  I  think  I  am  not), 
'Twere  but  the  silly  and  contrarious  mood 
Of  one  whose  sympathies  refuse  to  mix 
In  ought  not  felt  immediate  from  himself. 
But  of  a  truth. 
Your  joy  is  greater — mine  seems  therefore  none. 

Eve.     Nay,  neither  this  I  think  nor  that  is  true. 
Evermore  still  you  love  to  cheat  me,  Adam  : 
You  hide  from  me  your  thoughts  like  evil  beasts 
Most  foolishly  ;  for  I,  thus  left  to  guess, 
Catch  at  all  hints,  and  where  perchance  one  is, 
People  the  forest  with  a  hundred  ills, 
Each  worse  perhaps  a  hundred  times  than  it. 


40  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

No ;  you  have  got  some  fearful  thoughts  —  no,  no ; 
Look  not  in  that  way  on  my  baby,  Adam  — 
You  do  it  hurt ;  you  shall  not ! 

Adam.  Hear  me,  Eve, 

If  hear  you  will  —  and  speak  I  think  I  must  — 
Hear  me. 

What  is  it  I  would  say  ?     I  think  — 
And  yet  I  must  —  so  hear  me,  mother  blest, 
That  sittest  with  thy  nursling  at  thy  heart, 
Hope  not  too  greatly,  neither  fear  for  him. 
Feeling  on  thy  breast  his  small  compressing  lips. 
And  glorying  in  the  gift  they  draw  from  thee ; 
Hope  not  too  greatly  in  thyself  and  him. 
And  hear  me,  0  young  mother  —  I  must  speak. 
This  child  is  born  of  us,  and  therefore  like  us ; 
Is  born  of  us,  and  therefore  is  as  we ; 
Is  born  of  us,  and  therefore  is  not  pure  ; 
Earthly  as  well  as  godlike ;  bound  to  strive  — 
Not  doubtfully  I  augur  from  the  past  — 
Through  the  same  straits  of  anguish  and  of  doubt, 
'Mid  the  same  storms  of  terror  and  alarm. 
To  the  calm  ocean  which  he  yet  shall  reach, 
He  or  himself  or  in  his  sons  hereafter. 
Of  consummated  consciousness  of  self. 
The  self-same  stuff  which  wrought  in  us  to  grief 
Runs  in  his  veins ;  and  what  to  work  in  him  ? 
What  shape  of  unsuspected  deep  disguise, 
Transcending  our  experience,  our  best  cares 
Baffling,  evading  all  preventive  thought. 
Will  tlie  old  mischief  choose,  I  wonder,  here  ? 
O  born  to  human  trouble  !  also  born  — 
Else  wherefore  born  —  to  some  diviner  lot. 
Live,  and  may  chance  treat  thee  no  worse  than  us. 
There,  I  have  done :  the  dangerous  stuff  is  out ; 
My  mind  is  freed.     And  now,  my  gentle  Eve, 
Forgive  thy  foolish  spouse,  and  let  me  set 
A  father's  kiss  upon  these  budding  lips, 
A  husband's  on  the  mother's  —  the  full  flower. 
There,  there ;  and  so,  my  own  and  only  wife, 
Believe  me,  my  worst  thought  is  now  to  learn 
How  best  and  most  to  serve  this  child  and  thee. 

This  child  is  born  of  us,  and  therefore  like  us  — 
Most  true,  mine  own ;  and  if  a  man  like  me 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  41 

Externally,  internally  I  trust 

Most  like  to  thee,  the  better  of  the  twain. 

Is  born  of  us,  and  therefore  is  not  pure  — 
Did  I  say  that  ?     I  know  not  what  I  said; 
It  was  a  foolish  humour ;  but,  indeed, 
Whatever  you  may  think,  I  have  not  learnt 
The  trick  of  deep  suppression,  e'en  the  skill 
To  sort  my  thoughts  and  sift  my  words  enough. 
Not  pure,  indeed !  —  And  if  it  is  not  pure. 
What  is  ?     Ah,  well !  but  most  I  look  to  the  days 
When  these  small  arms,  with  pliant  thews  filled  out, 
Shall  at  my  side  break  up  the  fruitful  glebe, 
And  aid  the  cheery  labours  of  the  year  — 
Aid,  or  in  feebler  wearier  years,  replace, 
And  leave  me  longer  hours  for  home  and  love. 


Scene  IV. 
Adam  and  Eve. 

Eve.     0  Adam,  it  was  I  was  godless  then ; 
But  you  were  mournful,  heavy,  but  composed. 
At  times  would  somewhat  fiercely  bite  your  lip 
And  pass  your  hand  about  your  brow  ;  but  still 
Held  out,  denied  not  God,  acknowledged  still 
Those  glories  that  were  gone.     No,  I  never 
Felt  all  your  worth  to  me  before ;  I  feel 
You  did  not  fall  as  I  did. 

Adam.  Nay,  my  child, 

About  our  falls  I  don't  profess  to  know. 
I  know  I  ne'er  was  innocent  as  thou ; 
I  only  know,  as  you  will  have  it  so, 
Were  your  descent  more  lengthy  than  was  mine, 
It  is  not  that  your  place  is  lower  now, 
But  that  first  'twas  higher  up  than  mine ; 
It  is  that  I  being  bestial,  you  divine. 
We  now  alike  are  human  beings  both. 
About  our  fall  I  won't  profess  to  know, 
But  know  I  do 

That  I  was  never  innocent  as  thou. 
Moping  again,  my  love ;  yes,  I  dare  swear, 
All  the  day  long  while  I  have  been  at  work, 


42  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

With  some  religious  folly  in  your  head. 

Eve.     No,  Adam,  1  am  cheerful  quite  to-day ; 
I  vary  much,  indeed,  from  hour  to  hour. 
But  since  my  baby's  birth  I  am  happier  far ; 
And  I  have  done  some  work  as  well  as  you. 

Adam.     What  is  it  tho'  ?  for  I  will  take  my  oath 
You've  got  some  fancy  stirring  in  your  brain. 

Eve.     Nay,  but  it  vexes  me  for  evermore 
To  find  in  you  no  credence  to  my  thought. 

Adam.     What  is  it  then  you  wish  me  to  subscribe  to  ? 
That  we  were  in  a  garden  put  by  God, 
Allowed  to  eat  of  all  the  trees  but  one. 
Somehow  —  I  don't  know  how  —  a  serpent  tempted  us, 
And  eat  we  did  and  so  were  doomed  to  die ; 
Whereas  before  we  were  meant  to  live  forever. 
Meantime,  turned  out 

Eve.  You  do  not  think,  then,  Adam, 

We  have  been  disobedient  unto  God  ? 

Adam.     My  child,  how  should  I  know,  and  what  do 
you  mean  ? 
Your  question's  not  so  simple  as  it  looks ; 
For  if  you  mean  that  God  said  this  or  that  — 
As  that  '  You  shall  not  touch  those  apples  there/ 
And  that  we  did  —  why,  all  that  I  can  say 
Is  that  I  can't  conceive  the  thing  to  be. 
But  if  it  were  so,  I  should  then  believe 
We  had  done  right  —  at  any  rate  no  harm. 

Eve.     0  Adam,  I  can  scarcely  think  I  hear ; 
For  if  God  said  to  us  —  God  being  God  — 
'  You  shall  not,'  is  not  His  commandment  His  ? 
And  are  not  we  the  creatures  He  hath  made  ? 

Adam.    My  child,  God  does  not  speak  to  human  minds 
In  that  unmeaning  arbitrary  way. 
God  were  not  God  if  so,  and  good  not  good. 
Search  in  your  heart,  and  if  you  tell  me  there 
You  find  a  genuine  voice  —  no  fancy,  mind  you  — 
Declaring  to  you  this  or  that  is  evil, 
Why  this  or  that  I  daresay  evil  is. 
Believe  me,  I  will  listen  to  the  word ; 
For  not  by  observation  of  without 
Cometh  the  kingdom  of  the  voice  of  God : 
It  is  within  us  —  let  us  seek  it  there. 

Eve.   Yet  I  have  voices,  surely,  in  my  heart. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  43 

Often  you  say  I  heed  them  over  much. 

Adam.    God's  voice  is  of  the  heart :  I  do  not  say 
All  voices,  therefore,  of  the  heart  are  God's ; 
And  to  discern  the  voice  amidst  the  voices 
Is  that  hard  task,  my  love,  that  we  are  born  to. 

Eve.   Ah  me,  in  me  I  am  sure  the  one,  one  voice 
Goes  somehow  to  the  sense  of  what  I  say  — 
The  sense  of  disobedience  to  God. 

0  Adam,  some  Avay,  some  time,  we  have  done  wrong, 
And  when  I  think  of  this,  I  still  must  think 

Of  Paradise,  and  of  the  stately  tree 
Which  in  the  middle  of  the  garden  grew. 
The  golden  fruit  that  hiuig  upon  its  boughs, 
Of  which  but  once  we  ate,  and  I  must  feel 
That  whereas  once  in  His  continual  sight 
We  lived,  in  daily  communing  with  Him, 
We  now  are  banished,  and  behold  not  Him. 
Our  only  present  communing,  alas  ! 
Is  penitential  mourning,  and  the  gaze 
Of  the  abased  and  prostrate  prayerful  soul ; 
But  you,  yourself,  my  Adam,  you  at  least 
Acknowledge  some  time  somehow  we  did  wrong. 

Adam.    My  child,  I  never  even  granted  that. 

Eve.   Oh,  but  you  let  strange  words  at  times  fall  from 
you. 
They  are  to  me  like  thunderbolts  from  heaven ; 

1  listen  terrified  and  sick  at  heart, 

Then  haste  and  pick  them  up  and  treasure  them. 
What  was  it  that  you  said  when  Cain  was  born  ? 
'He's  born  of  us  and  therefore  is  not  pure.' 
0,  you  corrected  well,  my  husband,  then 
My  foolish,  fond  exuberance  of  delight. 

Adam.   My  child,  believe  me,  truly  I  was  the  fool ; 
But  a  first  baby  is  a  strange  surprise. 
I  shall  not  say  so  when  another  comes ; 
And  I  beseech  you  treasure  up  no  words. 
You  know  me :  I  am  loose  of  tongue  and  light. 
I  beg  you.  Eve,  remember  nought  of  this ; 
Put  not  at  least,  I  pray  you  —  nay,  command  — 
Put  not,  when  days  come  on,  your  own  strange  whim 
And  misconstruction  of  my  idle  words 
Into  the  tender  brains  of  our  poor  young  ones. 


44  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Scene  V. 

Adam  with  Cain  and  Abel. 

Adam.  Cain,  beware! 

Strike  not  your  brother !  I  have  said,  beware ! 
A  heavy  curse  is  on  this  thing,  my  son. 
With  doubt  and  fear, 
Terror  and  toil  and  pain  already  here. 
Let  us  not  have  injustice  too,  my  son. 
So  Cain,  beware ! 
And  Abel,  too,  see  you  provoke  him  not. 

Scene  VI. 

Abel  alone. 

Abel.  At  times  I  could  believe 

My  father  is  no  better  than  his  son : 
If  not  as  overbearing,  proud  and  hard, 
Yet  prayerless,  worldly,  almost  more  than  Cain. 
Enlighten  and  convert  him  ere  the  end. 
My  God !  spurn  not  my  mother's  prayers  and  mine. 
Since  I  was  born,  was  I  not  left  to  Thee, 
In  an  unspiritual  and  godless  house, 
Unfathered  and  unbrothered  —  Thine  and  hers  ? 
They  think  not  of  the  fall :  e'en  less  they  think 
Of  the  redemption,  which  God  said  should  be; 
Which,  for  we  apprehend  it  by  our  faith. 
Already  is  —  is  come  for  her  and  me. 
Ye^,  though  I  sin,  my  sin  is  not  to  death ; 
In  my  repentance  I  have  joy,  such  joy 
That  almost  I  could  sin  to  seek  for  it  — 
Yea,  if  I  did  not  hate  it  and  abhor, 
And  know  that  Thou  abhorr'st  and  hatest  it, 
And  will'st,  for  an  example  to  the  rest, 
That  Thine  elect  should  keep  themselves  from  it. 
Alas! 

My  mother  calls  the  fall  a  mystery ; 
Kedemptiou  is  so  too.     But  oh,  my  God, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  45 

Thou  wilt  bring  all  things  in  the  end  to  good. 

Yea,  though  the  whole  world  lie  in  wickedness,  I 

Am  with  Thee,  with  Thee,  with  Thee  evermore. 

Ah,  yet  I  am  not  satisfied  with  this  ! 

Am  I  not  feeding  spiritual  pride, 

Eejoicing  over  sinners,  inelect 

And  unadmitted  to  the  fellowship 

Which  I,  im worthy,  most  unworthy,  share  ? 

What  can  I  do  —  how  can  I  help  it  then  ? 

0  God,  remove  it  from  my  heart;  pluck  out. 
Whatever  pain,  whatever  wrench  to  me. 

These  sinful  roots  and  remnants  which,  whate'er 

1  do,  how  high  so  e'er  I  soar  from  earth. 
Still,  undestroyed,  still  germinate  within. 
Take  them  away  in  Thy  good  time,  0  God. 
Meantime,  for  that  atonement's  precious  sake 
Which  in  Tt'hy  counsels  predetermined  works 
Already  to  the  saving  of  the  saints, 

0  Father,  view  with  mercy,  and  forgive  ; 
Nor  let  my  vexed  perception  of  my  sin, 
Nor  any  multitude  of  evil  thoughts. 
Crowding  like  demons  in  my  spirit's  house, 
Nor  life,  nor  death,  things  here  or  things  below, 
Cast  out  the  sweet  assurance  of  my  soul 
That  I  am  Thine,  and  Thou  art  mine,  my  God. 


Scene  VII. 

Cain  alone. 

Cain.   Am  I  or  am  I  not  this  which  they  think  me  ? 
My  mother  loves  me  not ;  my  brother  Abel, 
Searing  my  heart,  commends  my  soul  to  God ; 
My  father  does  not  shun  me  —  there's  my  comfort: 
Almost  I  think  they  look  askance  on  him. 
Ah,  but  for  him, 

I  know  not  what  might  happen ;  for  at  times 
Ungovernable  angers  take  the  waves 
Of  my  deep  soul  and  sweep  them  —  who  knows  whither  ? 
And  a  strange  impulse,  struggling  to  the  truth, 
Urges  me  onward  to  put  forth  my  strength, 
No  matter  how.     A  Avild  anxiety 


46  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Possesses  me  moreover  to  essay 

This  world  of  action  round  me  so  unknown ; 

And  to  be  able  to  do  this  or  that 

Seems  cause  enough  without  a  cause  for  doing  it. 

My  father,  he  is  cheerful  and  content, 

And  leads  me  frankly  forward.     Yet,  indeed, 

His  leading  —  or,  more  truly,  to  be  led 

At  all,  by  any  one,  and  not  myself  — 

Is  mere  dissatisfaction :  evermore 

Something  I  must  do  individual, 

To  vindicate  my  nature,  to  give  proof 

I  also  am  as  Adam  is,  a  man. 

Scene  VIH. 
Adam  and  Eve. 

Adam.   These  sacrifices,  0  my  best  beloved, 
These  rites  and  forms  which  you  have  taught  our  boys, 
Which  I  nor  practise  nor  can  understand, 
Will  turn,  I  trust,  to  good ;  but  I  much  fear. 
Besides  the  superstitious  search  of  signs 
In  merest  accidents  of  earth  and  air. 
They  cause,  I  think,  a  sort  of  jealousy  — 
Ill-blood.     Hark,  now ! 

Eve.   0  God,  whose  cry  is  that  ? 
Abel,  where  is  my  Abel  ? 

Adam.   Cain!  what,  Cain! 

Scene  IX. 

Cain  alone  with  the  body  of  Abel. 

Cain.   What !    fallen  ?    so  quickly  down  —  so   easily 
felled, 
And  so  completely  ?     Why,  he  does  not  move. 
Will  not  he  stir  —  will  he  not  breathe  again  ? 
Still  as  a  log  —  still  as  his  own  dead  lamb. 
Dead  is  it  then  ?  •  0  wonderful !  O  strange ! 
Dead !  dead !     And  we  can  slay  each  other  then  ? 
If  we  are  wronged,  why  we  can  right  ourselves ; 
If  we  are  plagued  and  pestered  with  a  fool 
That  will  not  let  us  be,  nor  leave  us  room 


.  RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  47 

To  do  our  Avill  and  shape  our  path  in  peace, 
We  can  be  rid  of  him.     There  —  he  is  gone ; 
Victory !  victory !  victory  !     My  heaven, 
Methinks,  from  infinite  distances  borne  back, 
It  comes  to  me  re-borne  —  in  multitude 
Echoed,  re-echoed,  and  re-echoed  again, 
Victory  !  victory !  —  distant,  yet  distinct  — 
Uncountable  times  repeated.     0  ye  gods  ! 
Where  am  I  come,  and  whither  am  I  borne  ? 

I  stand  upon  the  pinnacle  of  earth. 
And  hear  the  wild  seas  laughing  at  my  feet ; 
Yet  I  could  wish  that  he  had  struggled  more  — 
That  passiveness  was  disappointing.     Ha ! 
He  should  have  writhed  and  wrestled  in  my  arms, 
And  all  but  overcome,  and  set  his  knee 
Hard  on  my  chest,  till  I  —  all  faint,  yet  still 
Holding  my  fingers  at  his  throat  —  at  last, 
Inch  after  inch,  had  forced  him  to  relax : 
But  he  went  down  at  once,  without  a  word, 
Almost  without  a  look. 

Ah!  — hush!    My  God! 
Who  was  it  spoke  ?     What  is  this  qviestioner  ? 
Who  was  it  asked  me  where  my  brother  is  ? 
Ha,  ha !     Was  I  his  keeper  ?     I  know  not. 
Each  for  himself ;  he  might  have  struck  again. 
Why  did  he  not  ?     I  wished  him  to.     Was  I 
To  strike  for  both  at  once  ?     No  !     Yet,  ah  ! 
Where  is  thy  brother  ?     Peace,  thou  silly  voice ; 
Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  ?     I  know  not, 
I  know  not  ought  about  it ;  let  it  be. 
Henceforth  I  shall  walk  freely  upon  earth, 
And  know  my  will,  and  do  it  by  my  might. 
My  God  !  —  it  will  not  be  at  peace  —  my  God ! 
It  flames ;  it  bursts  in  fury  in  my  soul. 
What  is  it  that  will  come  of  this  ?     Ah  me ! 
What  is  it  I  have  done  ?  —  Almighty  God ! 
I  see  it ;  I  behold  it  as  it  is. 
As  it  will  be  in  all  the  times  to  come : 
Slaughter  on  slaughter,  blood  for  blood,  and  death. 
For  ever,  ever,  ever,  evermore ! 
And  all  for  what  ? 

0  Abel,  brother  mine, 
Where'er  thou  art,  more  happy  far  than  me  ! 


48  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Scene  X. 

Adam  alone. 

Adam.   Abel  is  dead,  and  Cain  —  ah,  what  is  Cain  ? 
Is  he  not  even  more  than  Abel  dead  ? 
Well,  we  must  hope  in  Seth.     This  merest  man, 
This  unambitious  commonplace  of  life, 
Will  after  all  perhaps  mend  all ;  and  though 
Record  shall  tell  men  to  the  after-time 
No  wondrous  tales  of  him,  in  him  at  last, 
And  in  his  seed  increased  and  multiplied. 
Earth  shall  be  blest  and  peopled  and  subdued, 
And  what  was  meant  to  be  be  brought  to  pass. 
Oh  but,  my  Abel  and  my  Cain,  e'en  so 
You  shall  not  be  forgotten  nor  unknown. 

Scene  XI. 
Cain  and  Eve. 

Cain.     I  am  come.     Curse  me ; 
Curse  Cain,  my  mother,  ere  he  goes.     He  waits. 

Eve.   Who?     What  is  this? 
Oh  Abel !  0  my  gentle,  holy  child, 
My  perfect  son ! 
Monster !  and  did  I  bear  thee  too  ? 

Cain.   He  was  so  good,  his  brother  hated  him, 
And  slew  him  for't.     Go  on,  my  mother,  on. 

jplvg  #  #  *  *  ♦ 

For  there  are  rites  and  holy  means  of  grace 
Of  God  ordained  for  man's  eternal  [weal]. 
With  these,  my  son,  address  thyself  to  l^m. 
And  seek  atonement  from  a  gracious  (iod, 
With  whom  is  balm  for  every  wounded  heart. 

Cain.    I  ask  not  for  atonement,  mother  mine ; 
I  ask  but  one  thing  —  never  to  forget. 
I  ask  but  —  not  to  add  to  one  great  crime 
Another  self-delusion  scarcely  less. 
I  could  ask  more,  but  more  1  know  is  siu. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  49 

If  sacrifices  and  the  fat  of  lambs, 
And  whole  burnt-offerings  upon  piles  of  turf, 
Will  bring  me  this,  I'd  fill  the  heaven  with  smoke, 
And  deface  earth  with  million  fiery  scars. 
I  could  ask  back  (and  think  it  but  my  right, 
And  passionately  claim  it  as  my  right) 
That  precious  life  which  one  misguided  blow. 
Which  one  scarce  conscious  momentary  act. 
One  impulse  blindly  followed  to  its  close. 
Ended  forever ;  but  that  I  know  this  vain. 
If  they  shall  only  keep  my  sin  in  mind, 
I  shall  not,  be  assured,  neglect  them  either. 

Eve.   You  ask  not  for  atonement !     0  my  son  — 
Cain,  you  are  proud  and  hard  of  heart  e'en  now. 
Beware ! 

Prostrate  your  soul  in  penitential  prayer. 
Humble  your  heart  beneath  the  mighty  hand 
Of  God,  whose  gracious  guidance  oft  shall  lead 
Through  sin  and  crime  the  changed  and  melted  heart 
To  sweet  repentance  and  the  sense  of  Him. 
You  ask  not  for  atonement !  0  my  son ! 
What,  to  be  banished  from  the  sight  of  God ; 
To  dwell  with  wicked  spirits,  be  a  prey 
To  them  and  prey  yourself  on  hviman  souls ; 
What,  to  be  lost  in  wickedness  and  wrath, 
Deeper  and  deeper  down ; 
What,  Cain,  do  you  choose  this  ? 

Cain.  Alas  !  my  mother, 

I  know  not ;  there  are  mysteries  in  your  heart 
Which  I  profess  not  knowledge  of :  it  may  be 
That  this  is  so ;  if  so,  may  God  reveal  it. 
Have  faith  you  too  in  my  heart's  secrets ;  yea. 
All  I  can  say,  alas,  is  that  to  me. 
As  I  now  comprehend  it,  this  were  sin. 
Atonement  —  no :  not  that,  but  punishment. 
But  what  avails  to  talk  ?  talk  as  we  will. 
As  yet  we  shall  not  know  each  other's  hearts ; 
Let  me  not  talk,  but  act.     Farewell,  forever. 


50  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Scene  XII. 
Adam  and  Cain. 

Cain.     This  is  the  history  then,  my  father,  is  it  ? 
This  is  the  perfect  whole  ? 

Adam.  My  son,  it  is. 

And  whether  a  dream,  or  if  it  were  a  dream, 
A  transcript  of  an  inward  spiritual  fact 
(As  you  suggest,  and  I  allow,  might  be), 
Not  the  less  true  because  it  was  a  dream. 
I  know  not  —  0  my  Cain,  I  cannot  tell. 
But  in  my  soul  I  think  it  was  a  dream. 
And  but  a  dream ;  a  thing,  whence'er  it  came, 
To  be  forgotten  and  considered  not. 

Cain.     Father,  you  should  have  told  me  this  before ; 
It  is  no  use  now.     Oh  God,  my  brother !  oh  God ! 
****** 

Adam.     For  what  is  life,  and  what  is  pain  or  death  ? 
You  have  killed  Abel :  Abel  killed  the  lamb  — 
An  act  in  him  prepense,  in  you  unthought  of. 
One  step  you  stirred,  and  lo !  you  stood  entrapped. 

Cain.  My  father,  this  is  true,  I  know ;  but  yet, 
There  is  some  truth  beside :  I  cannot  say, 
But  I  have  heard  within  my  soul  a  voice 
Asking,  'Where  is  thy  brother? '  and  I  said — 
That  is,  the  evil  heart  within  me  said  — 
'  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  ?  go  ask  him. 
Who  was  it  that  provoked  me  ?  should  he  rail, 
And  I  not  smite  ?  his  death  be  on  his  head.' 
But  the  voice  answered  in  my  soul  again. 
So  that  the  other  ceased  and  was  no  more. 

Scene  XIII. 

Adam  and  Cain. 

Cain.    My  father,  Abel's  dead. 

Adam.     My  son,  'tis  done,  it  was  to  be  done ;   some 
good  end 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  51 

Thereby  to  come,  or  else  it  had  not  been. 
Go,  for  it  must  be.     Cain,  I  know  your  heart, 
You  cannot  be  with  us.     Go,  then,  depart ; 
But  be  not  over  scrupulous,  my  son. 

Cain.     Curse  me,  my  father,  ere  I  go.     Your  curse 
Will  go  with  me  for  good  ;  your  curse 
Will  make  me  not  forget, 
Alas !  I  am  not  of  that  pious  kind, 
Who,  when  the  blot  has  fallen  upon  their  life, 
Can  look  to  heaven  and  think  it  white  again  — 
Look  up  to  heaven  and  find  a  something  there 
To  make  what  is  not  be,  altho'  it  is. 
My  mother  —  ah,  how  you  have  spoke  of  this  ! 
The  dead  —  to  him  'twas  innocence  and  joy, 
And  purity  and  safety  from  the  world : 
To  me  the  thing  seems  sin — the  worst  of  sin. 
If  it  be  so,  why  are  we  here  ?  —  the  world. 
Why  is  it  as  1  find  it  ?     The  dull  stone 
Cast  from  ray  hand,  why  comes  it  not  again  ? 
The  broken  flow'ret,  why  does  it  not  live  ? 
If  it  be  so. 

Why  are  we  here,  and  why  is  Abel  dead  ? 
Shall  this  be  true 

Of  stocks  and  stones  and  mere  inanimate  clay, 
And  not  in  some  sort  also  hold  for  us  ? 

Adam.     My  son.  Time  healeth  all. 
Time  and  great  Nature ;  heed  her  speech,  and  learn. 

Cain.     My  father,  you  are  learned  in  this  sort : 
You  read  the  earth,  as  does  my  mother  heaven. 
Both  books  are  dark  to  me  —  only  I  feel 
That  this  one  thing 

And  this  one  word  in  me  must  be  declared ; 
That  to  forget  is  not  to  be  restored ; 
To  lose  with  time  the  sense  of  what  we  did 
Cancels  not  that  we  did;  what's  done  remains  — 
I  am  my  brother's  murderer.     Woe  to  me ! 
Abel  is  dead.     No  prayers  to  empty  heaven, 
No  vegetative  kindness  of  the  earth, 
Will  bring  back  warmth  into  his  clay  again, 
The  gentleness  of  love  into  his  face. 
Therefore,  for  me  farewell ; 
Farewell  for  me  the  soft. 
The  balmy  influences  of  night  and  sleep, 


62  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

The  satisfaction  of  achievement  done, 

The  restorative  pulsing  of  the  blood 

That  changes  all  and  changes  e'en  the  soul  — 

And  natural  functions,  moving  as  they  should, 

The  sweet  good-nights,  the  sweet  delusive  dreams 

That  lull  us  out  of  old  things  into  new. 

But  welcome  Fact,  and  Pact's  best  brother,  Work ; 

Welcome  the  conflict  of  the  stubborn  soil. 

To  toil  the  livelong  day,  and  at  the  end, 

Instead  of  rest,  recarve  into  my  brow 

The  dire  memorial  mark  of  what  still  is. 

Welcome  this  worship,  which  I  feel  is  mine ; 

Welcome  this  duty  — 

—  the  solidarity  of  life 
And  unity  of  individual  soul. 
That  which  I  did,  I  did,  I  who  am  here : 
There  is  no  safety  but  in  this ;  and  Avhen 
I  shall  deny  the  thing  that  I  have  done, 
I  am  a  dream. 

Adam.     My  son, 
What  shall  I  say  ? 

That  which  your  soul,  in  marriage  with  the  world, 
Imbreeds  in  you,  accept ;  —  how  can  I  say 
Refuse  the  revelations  of  the  soid  ? 
Yet  be  not  over  scrupulous,  my  son, 
And  be  not  over  proud  to  put  aside 
The  due  consolements  of  the  circling  years. 
What  conies,  receive ;  be  not  too  wise  for  God. 
The  past  is  something,  but  the  present  more; 
Will  not  it  too  be  past  ?  —  nor  fail  withal 
To  recognise  the  future  in  our  hopes ; 
Unite  them  in  your  manhood  each  and  all, 
Nor  mutilate  the  perfectness  of  life. 
You  can  remember,  you  can  also  hope ; 
And,  doubtless,  with  the  long  instructive  years, 
Comfort  will  come  to  you,  my  son,  to  me. 
Even  to  your  mother,  comfort;  but  to  us 
Knowledge,  at  least  —  the  certainty  of  things 
Which,  as  I  think,  is  consolation's  sum. 
For  truly  now,  to-day,  to-morrow,  yes, 
Days  many  more  to  come,  alike  to  you, 
Whose  earliest  revelation  of  the  world 
Is,  horrible  indeed,  this  fatal  fact  — 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  53 

And  unto  me,  who,  knowing  not  much  before, 
Look  gropingly '  and  idly  into  this. 
And  recognise  no  figure  I  have  seen  — 
Alike,  my  son,  to  me,  and  to  yourself, 
Much  is  now  dark  which  one  day  will  be  light ; 
With  strong  assurance  fortify  your  soul 
Of  this :  and  that  you  meet  me  here  again, 
Promise  me,  Cain.     Farewell,  to  meet  again. 

Scene  XIV. 

Adaim's  Vision. 

Adam.     0  Cain,  the  words  of  Adam  shall  be  said ; 
Come  near,  and  hear  your  father's  words,  my  son. 
I  have  been  in  the  spirit,  as  they  call  it. 
Dreaming,  which  is,  as  others  say,  the  same. 
I  sat,  and  you,  Cain,  with  me,  and  Eve 
(We  sat  as  in  a  picture  people  sit. 
Great  figures,  silent,  with  their  place  content) ; 
And  Abel  came  and  took  your  hand,  my  son, 
And  wept  and  kissed  you,  saying,  '  Forgive  me,  Cain. 
Ah  me !  my  brother,  sad  has  been  thy  life 
For  my  sake,  all  thro'  me ;  how  foolishly. 
Because  we  knew  not  both  of  us  were  right ; ' 
And  you  embraced  and  wept,  and  we  too  wept. 

Then  I  beheld  through  eyes  with  tears  suffused, 

And  deemed  at  first  'twas  blindness  thence  ensuing; 

Abel  was  gone,  and  you  were  gone,  my  son  — 

Gone,  and  yet  not  gone ;  yea,  I  seemed  to  see 

The  decomposing  of  those  coloured  lines 

Which  we  called  you,  their  fusion  into  one, 

And  therewithal  their  vanishing  and  end. 

And  Eve  said  to  me,  '  Adam,  in  the  day 

When  in  the  inexistent  void  I  heard  God's  voice, 

An  awful  whisper,  bidding  me  to  be. 

How  slow  was  I  to  come,  how  loth  to  obey ; 

As  slow,  as  sad,  as  lingeringly  loth, 

I  fade,  I  vanish,  sink,  and  cease  to  be. 

By  the  same  sovereign  strong  compulsion  borne  : 

Ah,  if  I  vanish,  take  me  into  thee ! ' 

She  spoke,  nor,  speaking,  ^ceased  I  listening ;  but 


54  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

I  was  alone,  yet  not  alone,  with  her 

And  she  with  me,  and  you  with  us,  my  sons, 

As  at  the  first ;  —  and  yet  not  wholly  —  yea, 

And  that  which  I  had  witnessed  thus  in  you, 

This  fusion,  and  mutation,  and  return, 

Seemed  in  my  substance  working  too.     I  slept, 

I  did  not  dream,  my  sleep  was  sweet  to  me. 

Yes,  in  despite  of  all  disquietudes, 

For  Eve,  for  you,  for  Abel,  which  indeed 

Impelled  in  me  that  gaiety  of  soul  — 

Without  your  fears  I  had  listened  to  my  own  — 

In  spite  of  doubt,  despondency,  and  death. 

Though  lacking  knowledge  alway,  lacking  faith 

Sometimes,  and  hope ;  with  no  sure  trust  in  ought 

Except  a  kind  of  impetus  within, 

Whose  sole  credentials  were  that  trust  itself ; 

Yet,  in  despite  of  much,  in  lack  of  more. 

Life  has  been  beautiful  to  me,  my  son, 

And  I,  if  I  am  called,  will  come  again. 

As  he  hath  lived  he  dies.  —  My  comforter, 

Whom  I  believed  not,  only  trusted  in, 

What  had  I  been  without  thee  ?  how  survived  ? 

Would  I  were  with  thee  whereso'er  thou  art ! 

Would  I  might  follow  thee  still ! 

But  sleep  is  sweet,  and  I  would  sleep,  my  son. 

Oh  Cain  !  behold  your  father's  words  are  said ! 


THE  SONG  OF  LAMEOH. 

Hearken  to  me,  ye  mothers  of  my  tent : 
Ye  wives  of  Lamech,  hearken  to  my  speech : 
Adah,  let  .Tubal  hither  lead  his  goats : 
And  Tubal  Cain,  0  Zillah,  hush  the  forge; 
Naamah  her  wheel  shall  i)ly  beside,  and  thou. 
My  Jubal,  touch,  before  1  speak,  the  string. 
Yea,  Jubal,  touch,  before  I  speak,  the  string. 
Hear  ye  my  voice,  beloved  of  my  tent, 
Dear  ones  of  Lamech,  listen  to  my  speech. 

For  Eve  made  answer,  Cain,  my  son,  my  own. 
0,  if  I  cursed  thee,  O  my  child,  I  sinned, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  55 

And  He  that  heard  me,  heard,  and  said  me  nay : 
My  first,  my  only  one,  thou  shalt  not  go ;  — 
And  Adam  answered  also,  Cain,  my  son, 
He  that  is  gone  forgiveth,  we  forgive : 
Eob  not  thy  mother  of  two  sons  at  once ; 
My  child,  abide  with  us  and  comfort  us. 

Hear  ye  my  voice ;  Adah  and  Zillah,  near ; 
Ye  wives  of  Lamech,  listen  to  my  speech. 
For  Cain  replied  not.     But,  an  hour  more,  sat 
Where  the  night  through  he  sat ;  his  knit  brows  seen, 
Scarce  seen,  amid  the  foldings  of  his  limbs. 
But  when  the  sun  was  bright  upon  the  field, 
To  Adam  still,  and  Eve  still  waiting  by, 
And  weeping,  lift  he  up  his  voice  and  spake. 

Cain  said.  The  sun  is  risen  upon  the  earth ; 

The  day  demands  my  going,  and  I  go.  — 

As  you  from  Paradise,  so  I  from  you  : 

As  you  to  exile,  into  exile  I :  , 

My  father  and  my  mother,  I  depart. 

As  betwixt  you  and  Paradise  of  old. 

So  betwixt  me,  my  parents,  now,  and  you, 

Cherubim  I  discern,  and  in  their  hand 

A  flaming  sword  that  turneth  every  way, 

To  keep  the  way  of  my  one  tree  of  life. 

The  way  my  spirit  yearns  to,  of  my  love. 

Yet  not,  0  Adam  and  0  Eve,  fear  not. 

Eor  He  that  asked  me.  Where  is  Abel  ?     He 

Who  called  me  cursed  from  the  earth,  and  said 

A  fugitive  and  vagabond  thou  art. 

He  also  said,  when  fear  had  slain  my  soul. 

There  shall  not  touch  thee  man  nor  beast.     Fear  not. 

Lo,  I  have  spoke  with  God,  and  He  hath  said, 

Fear  not ;  — and  let  me  go  as  He  hath  said, 

Cain  also  said  (0  Jubal,  touch  thy  string),  — 

Moreover,  in  the  darkness  of  my  mind. 

When  the  night's  night  of  misery  was  most  black, 

A  little  star  came  twinkling  up  within, 

And  in  myself  I  had  a  guide  that  led. 

And  in  myself  had  knowledge  of  a  soul. 

Fear  not,  0  Adam  and  0  Eve :  I  go. 


56  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Children  of  Lamech,  listen  to  my  speech. 

For  when  the  years  Avere  multiplied,  and  Cain 

Eastward  of  Eden,  in  this  land  of  Nod, 

Had  sons,  and  sons  of  sons,  and  sons  of  them, 

Enoch  and  Irad  and  Mehujael 

(My  father,  and  my  children's  grandsire  he), 

It  came  to  pass  that  Cain,  who  dwelt  alone, 

Met  Adam,  at  the  nightfall,  in  the  field : 

Who  fell  upon  his  neck,  and  wept,  and  said, 

My  son,  has  not  God  spoken  to  thee,  Cain  ? 

And  Cain  replied,  when  weeping  loosed  his  voice, 

My  dreams  are  double,  0  my  father,  good 

And  evil.     Terror  to  my  soul  by  night, 

And  agony  by  day,  when  Abel  stands 

A  dead,  black  shade,  and  speaks  not,  neither  looks, 

Nor  makes  me  any  answer  when  I  cry  — 

Curse  me,  but  let  me  know  thou  art  alive. 

But  comfort  also,  like  a  whisper,  comes. 

In  visions  of  a  deeper  sleep,  when  he, 

Abel,  as  him  we  knew,  yours  once  and  mine, 

Comes  with  a  free  forgiveness  in  his  face, 

Seeming  to  speak,  solicitous  for  words, 

And  wearing  ere  he  go  the  old,  first  look 

Of  unsuspecting,  unforeboding  love. 

Three  nights  are  gone  I  saw  him  thus,  my  Sire. 

Dear  ones  of  Lamech,  listen  to  my  speech. 

For  Adam  said.  Three  nights  ago  to  me 
Came  Abel,  in  niy  sleep,  as  thoii  hast  said, 
And  spake,  and  bade,  —  Arise  my  father,  go 
Where  in  the  land  of  exile  dwells  thy  son  ; 
Say  to  my  brother,  Abel  bids  thee  come, 
Abel  would  have  thee ;  and  lay  thou  thy  hand, 
My  father,  on  his  head,  that  he  may  come; 
Am  I  not  weary,  father,  for  tliis  hour  ? 
Hear  ye  my  voice,  Adah  and  Zillah,  hear ; 
Children  of  Lamech,  listen  to  my  speech  : 
And,  son  of  Zillah,  sound  thy  solemn  string. 

For  Adam  laid  upon  the  head  of  Cain 

His  hand,  and  Cain  bowed  down,  and  slept,  and  died. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  57 

And  a  deep  sleep  on  Adam  also  fell, 
And,  in  his  slumber's  deepest,  he  beheld, 
Standing  before  the  gate  of  Paradise, 
With  Abel,  hand  in  hand,  our  father  Cain. 
Hear  ye  my  voice,  Adah  and  Zillah,  hear; 
Ye  wives  of  Lamech,  listen  to  my  speech. 

Though  to  his  wounding  he  did  slay  a  man, 
Yea,  and  a  young  man  to  his  hurt  he  slew, 
Fear  not,  ye  wives,  nor  sons  of  Lamech  fear : 
If  unto  Cain  was  safety  given  and  rest. 
Shall  Lamech  surely  and  his  people  die  ? 


GENESIS  XXIV. 

Who  is  this  man 

that  walketh  in  the  field, 
0  Eleazar, 

steward  to  my  lord  ? 

And  Eleazar 

answered  her  and  said, 
Daughter  of  Bethuel, 

it  is  other  none 
But  my  lord  Isaac, 

son  unto  my  lord. 
Who,  as  his  wont  is, 

walketh  in  the  field. 
In  the  hour  of  evening, 

meditating  there. 

Therefore  Rebekah 

hasted  where  she  sat. 
And  from  her  camel 

'lighting  to  the  earth, 
Sought  for  a  veil 

and  put  it  on  her  face. 

But  Isaac  also, 

walking  in  the  field, 
Saw  from  afar 

a  company  that  came, 


58  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Camels,  and  a  seat 

as  where  a  woman  sat ; 
Wherefore  he  came 

and  met  them  on  the  way. 

Whom,  when  Rebekah 

saw,  she  came  before, 

Saying,  Behold 

the  handmaid  of  my  lord, 

Who,  for  my  lord's  sake, 

travel  from  my  land. 

But  he  said,  0 

thou  blessed  of  our  God, 
Come,  for  the  tent 

is  eager  for  thy  face. 
Shall  not  thy  husband 

be  unto  thee  more  than 
Hundreds  of  kinsmen 

living  in  thy  land  ? 

And-Eleazar  answered, 

Thus  and  thus, 
Even  according 

as  thy  father  bade, 
Did  we ;  and  thus  and 

thus  it  came  to  pass : 
Lo !  is  not  this 

Eebekah,  Bethuel's  child  ? 

And,  as  he  ended, 

Isaac  spoke  and  said. 
Surely  my  heart 

went  with  you  on  the  way. 
When  with  the  beasts 

ye  came  unto  the  place. 

Truly,  0  child 

of  Nahor,  I  was  there. 
When  to  thy  mother 

and  thy  mother's  son 
Thou  madest  answer, 

saying,  I  will  go. 
And  Isaac  brought  her 

to  his  mother's  tent. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  59 


JACOB. 


My  sons,  and  ye  the  children  of  my  sons, 
Jacob  your  father  goes  upon  his  way, 
His  pilgrimage  is  being  accomplished. 
Come  near  and  here  him  ere  his  words  are  o'er. 

Not  as  my  father's  or  his  father's  days, 
As  Isaac's  days  or  Abraham's,  have  been  mine; 
Not  as  the  days  of  those  that  in  the  field 
Walked  at  the  eventide  to  meditate, 
And  haply,  to  the  tent  returning,  found 
Angels  at  nightfall  waiting  at  their  door. 
They  communed,  Israel  wrestled  with  the  Lord. 
No,  not  as  Abraham's  or  as  Isaac's  days. 
My  sons,  have  been  Jacob  your  father's  days, 
Evil  and  few,  attaining  not  to  theirs 
In  number,  and  in  worth  inferior  much. 
As  a  man  with  his  friend,  walked  they  with  God, 
In  His  abiding  presence  they  abode. 
And  all  their  acts  were  open  to  His  face. 
But  I  have  had  to  force  mine  eyes  away, 
To  lose,  almost  to  shun,  the  thoughts  I  loved, 
To  bend  down  to  the  work,  to  bare  the  breast, 
And  struggle,  feet  and  hands,  with  enemies ; 
To  buffet  and  to  battle  with  hard  men. 
With  men  of  selfishness  and  violence ; 
To  watch  by  day,  and  calculate  by  night. 
To  plot  and  think  of  plots,  and  through  a  land 
Ambushed  with  guile,  and  with  strong  foes  beset, 
To  win  with  art  safe  wisdom's  peaceful  Avay. 
Alas !  I  know,  and  from  the  onset  knew, 
The  first-born  faith,  the  singleness  of  soul, 
The  antique  pure  simplicity  with  which 
God  and  good  angels  communed  undispleased, 
Is  not ;  it  shall  not  any  more  be  said, 
That  of  a  blameless  and  a  holy  kind, 
The  chosen  race,  the  seed  of  promise,  comes. 
The  royal,  high  prerogatives,  the  dower 
Of  innocence  and  pert" ectness  of  life, 
Pass  not  unto  my  children  from  their  sire. 
As  unto  me  they  came  of  mine ;  they  fit 


60  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Neither  to  Jacob  nor  to  Jacob's  race. 

Think  ye,  my  sons,  in  this  extreme  old  age 

And  in  this  failing  breath,  that  I  forget 

How  on  the  day  when  from  my  father's  door, 

In  bitterness  and  ruefulness  of  heart, 

I  from  my  parents  set  my  face,  and  felt 

I  never  more  again  should  look  on  theirs, 

How  on  that  day  I  seemed  unto  myself 

Another  Adam  from  his  home  cast  out, 

And  driven  abroad  unto  a  barren  land. 

Cursed  for  his  sake,  and  mocking  still  with  thorns 

And  briers  that  labour  and  that  sweat  of  brow 

He  still  must  spend  to  live  ?     Sick  of  my  days, 

I  wished  not  life,  but  cried  out,  Let  me  die ; 

But  at  Luz  God  came  to  me ;  in  my  heart 

He  put  a  better  mind,  and  showed  me  how, 

While  we  discern  it  not,  and  least  believe, 

On  stairs  invisible  betwixt  His  heaven 

And  our  unholy,  sinful,  toilsome  earth 

Celestial  messengers  of  loftiest  good 

Upward  and  downward  pass  continually. 

Many,  since  I  upon  the  field  of  Luz 

Set  up  the  stone  I  slept  on,  unto  God, 

Many  have  been  the  troubles  of  my  life ; 

Sins  in  the  field  and  sorrows  in  the  tent. 

In  mine  own  household  anguish  and  despair. 

And  gall  and  wormwood  mingled  with  my  love. 

The  time  would  fail  me  should  I  seek  to  tell 

Of  a  child  wronged  and  cruelly  revenged 

(Accursed  was  that  anger,  it  was  fierce, 

That  wrath,  for  it  was  cruel) ;  or  of  strife 

And  jealousy  and  cowardice,  with  lies 

Mocking  a  father's  misery ;  deeds  of  blood. 

Pollutions,  sicknesses,  and  sudden  deaths. 

These  many  things  against  me  many  times. 

The  ploughers  have  plouglied  deej)  upon  my  back, 

And  made  deep  furrows ;  blessed  be  His  name 

Who  hath  delivered  Jacob  out  of  all. 

And  left  within  his  spirit  hope  of  good. 

Come  near  to  me,  my  sons :  your  father  goes, 
The  hour  of  his  departure  draweth  nigh. 
Ah  me  1  this  eager  rivalry  of  life. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  61 

This  cruel  conflict  for  preeminence, 

This  keen  supplanting  of  the  dearest  kin, 

Quick  seizure  and  fast  unrelaxing  hold 

Of  Tantage-place;  the  stony  hard  resolve, 

The  chase,  the  competition,  and  the  craft 

Which  seems  to  be  the  poison  of  our  life. 

And  yet  is  the  condition  of  our  life ! 

To  have  done  things  on  which  the  eye  with  shame 

Looks  back,  the  closed  hand  clutching  still  the  prize !  — 

Alas !  what  of  all  these  things  shall  I  say  ? 

Take  me  away  unto  Thy  sleep,  0  God  ! 

I  thank  Thee  it  is  over,  yet  1  think 

It  was  a  work  appointed  me  of  Thee. 

How  is  it  ?     1  have  striven  all  my  days 

To  do  my  duty  to  my  house  and  hearth, 

And  to  the  purpose  of  my  father's  race. 

Yet  is  my  heart  therewith  not  satisfied. 


JACOB'S  WIVES. 

These  are  the  words  of  Jacob's  wives,  the  words 
Which  Leah  spake  and  Rachel  to  his  ears, 
When,  in  the  shade  at  eventide,  he  sat 
By  the  tent  door,  a  palm  tree  overhead,     - 
A  spring  beside  him,  and  the  sheep  around. 

And  Rachel  spake  and  said.  The  nightfall  comes  - 
Night,  which  all  day  I  wait  for,  and  for  thee. 

And  Leah  also  spake.  The  day  is  done ; 
My  lord  with  toil  is  weary  and  Avould  rest. 

And  Rachel  said.  Come,  0  my  Jacob,  come; 
And  we  will  think  we  sit  beside  the  well. 
As  in  that  day,  the  long  long  years  agone, 
When  first  I  met  thee  with  my  father's  flock. 

And  Leah  said.  Come,  Israel,  unto  me ; 
And  thou  shalt  reap  an  harvest  of  fair  sons, 
E'eu  as  before  I  bare  thee  goodly  babes ; 
For  when  was  Leah  fruitless  to  my  lord  ? 


62  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  Eachel  said,  Ah  come !  as  then  thou  cam'st, 
Come  once  again  to  set  thy  seal  of  love ; 
As  then,  down  bending,  when  the  sheep  had  drunk, 
Then  settedst  it,  my  shepherd  —  0  sweet  seal !  — 
Upon  the  unwitting,  half-foretasting  lips. 
Which,  shy  and  trembling,  thirsted  yet  for  thine 
As  cattle  thirsted  never  for  the  spring. 

And  Leah  answered.  Are  not  these  their  names  — 
As  Keuben,  Simeon,  Levi,  Judah  —  four  ? 
Like  four  young  saplings  by  the  water's  brim, 
Where  straining  rivers  through  the  great  plain  wind 
Four  saplings  soon  to  rise  to  goodly  trees  — 
Four  trees  whose  growth  shall  cast  an  huger  shade 
Than  ever  yet  on  river-side  was  seen. 

And  Eachel  said.  And  shall  it  be  again 
As,  when  dissevered  far,  unheard,  alone, 
Consumed  in  bitter  anger  all  night  long, 
I  moaned  and  wept,  while,  silent  and  discreet, 
One  reaped  the  fruit  of  love  that  Rachel's  was 
Upon  the  breast  of  him  that  knew  her  not  ? 

And  Leah  said.  And  was  it  then  a  wrong 
That,  in  submission  to  a  father's  word. 
Trembling  yet  hopeful,  to  that  bond  I  crept. 
Which  God  hath  greatly  prospered,  and  my  lord, 
Content,  in  after-wisdom  not  disowned. 
Joyful,  in  after-thankfulness  approved  ? 

And  Rachel  said.  But  we  will  not  complain, 
Though  all  life  long,  an  alien,  unsought  third, 
She  trouble  our  companionship  of  love. 

And  Leah  answered,  No,  complain  we  not, 
Though  years  on  years  she  loiter  in  the  tent, 
A  fretful,  vain,  unprofitable  wife. 

And  Rachel  answered.  Ah !  she  little  knows 
What  in  old  days  to  Jacob  Rachel  was. 

And  Leah  said.  And  wilt  thou  dare  to  say. 
Because  my  lord  was  gracious  to  thee  then. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  63 

No  deeper  thought  his  riper  cares  hath  claimed, 

No  stronger  purpose  passed  into  his  life  ? 

That,  youth  and  maid  once  fondly,  softly  touched, 

Time's  years  must  still  the  casual  dream  repeat, 

And  all  the  river  far,  from  source  to  sea, 

One  flitting  moment's  chance  reflection  bear  ? 

Also  she  added.  Who  is  she  to  judge 

Of  thoughts  maternal,  and  a  father's  heart  ? 

And  Kachel  said.  But  what  to  supersede 

The  rights  which  choice  bestowed  hath  Leah  done  ? 

What  which  my  handmaid  or  which  hers  hath  not  ? 

Is  Simeon  more  than  Naphtali  ?  is  Dan 

Less  than  his  brother  Levi  in  the  house  ? 

That  part  that  Billah  and  that  Zilpah  have. 

That,  and  no  more,  hath  Leah  in  her  lord ; 

And  let  her  with  the  same  be  satisfied. 

Leah  asked  then.  And  shall  these  things  compare 
(Fond  wishes,  and  the  pastime,  and  the  play) 
With  serious  aims  and  forward- working  hopes  — 
Aims  as  far-reaching  as  to  earth's  last  age. 
And  hopes  far-travelling  as  from  east  to  west  ? 

Eachel  replied.  That  love  which  in  his  youth. 
Through  trial  proved,  consoles  his  perfect  age  ; 
Shall  this  with  project  and  with  plan  compare  ? 
Is  not  forever  shorter  than  all  time. 
And  love  more  straitened  than  from  east  to  west  ? 

Leah  spake  further.  Hath  my  lord  not  told 
How,  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  his  God, 
The  God  of  Abraham  and  of  Isaac,  spake 
And  said,  Increase,  and  multiply,  and  fill 
With  sons  to  serve  Me  this  thy  land  and  mine ; 
And  I  will  surely  do  thee  good,  and  make 
Thy  seed  as  is  the  sand  beside  the  sea. 
Which  is  not  numbered  for  its  multitude  ? 
Shall  Eachel  bear  this  progeny  to  God  ? 

But  Eachel  wept  and  answered.  And  if  God 
Hath  closed  the  womb  of  Eachel  until  now, 
Shall  He  not  at  His  pleasure  open  it  ? 


64  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Hath  Leah  read  the  counsels  of  the  Lord  ? 
Was  it  not  told  her,  in  the  ancient  days, 
How  Sarah,  mother  of  great  Israel's  sire. 
Lived  to  long  years,  insulted  of  her  slave. 
Or  e'er  to  light  the  Child  of  Promise  came, 
Whom  Rachel  too  to  Jacob  yet  may  bear  ? 

Moreover,  Rachel  said,  Shall  Leah  mock. 

Who  stole  the  prime  embraces  of  my  love, 

My  first  long-destined,  long-withheld  caress  ? 

But  not,  she  said,  methought,  but  not  for  this. 

In  the  old  days,  did  Jacob  seek  his  bride ;  — 

Where  art  thou  now,  O  thou  that  sought'st  me  then  ? 

Where  is  thy  loving  tenderness  of  old  ? 

And  where  that  fervency  of  faith  to  which 

Seven  weary  years  were  even  as  a  few  days  ? 

And  Rachel  wept  and  ended,  Ah,  ray  life ! 
Though  Leah  bare  thee  sons  on  sons,  methought 
The  child  of  love,  late-born,  were  worth  them  all. 

And  Leah  groaned  and  answered,  It  is  well : 
She  that  hath  kept  from  me  my  husband's  heart 
Will  set  their  father's  soul  against  my  sons. 
Yet,  also,  not,  she  said,  I  thought,  for  this, 
Not  for  the  feverish  nor  the  doating  love, 
Doth  Israel,  father  of  a  nation,  seek ; 
Nor  to  light  dalliance,  as  of  boy  and  girl. 
Incline  the  thoughts  of  matron  and  of  man, 
Or  lapse  the  wisdom  of  maturer  mind. 

And  Leah  ended,  Father  of  my  sons, 

Come,  thou  shalt  dream  of  Rachel  if  thou  wilt, 

So  Leah  fold  thee  in  a  wife's  embrace. 

These  are  the  words  of  Jacob's  wives,  who  sat 
In  the  tent  door,  and  listened  to  their  speech, 
The  spring  beside  him,  and  above  the  palm. 
While  all  the  sheep  were  gathered  for  the  night. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  65 


THE  NEW   SINAI. 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God ! 

Believe  it  not,  O  Man ; 
In  such  vain  sort  to  this  and  that 

The  ancient  heathen  ran  : 
Though  old  Religion  shake  her  head, 

And  say  in  bitter  grief. 
The  day  behold,  at  first  foretold, 

Of  atheist  unbelief : 
Take- better  part,  with  manly  heart. 

Thine  adult  spirit  can ; 
Receive  it  not,  believe  it  not, 

Believe  it  not,  0  Man ! 

As  men  at  dead  of  night  awaked 

With  cries,  'The  king  is  here,' 
Rush  forth  and  greet  vvhome'er  they  meet, 

Whoe'er  shall  first  appear ; 
And  still  repeat,  to  all  the  street, 

'  'Tis  he,  —  the  king  is  here ; ' 
The  long  procession  nioveth  on. 

Each  nobler  form  they  see. 
With  changeful  suit  they  still  salute 

And  cry,  '  'Tis  he,  'tis  he ! ' 

So,  even  so,  when  men  were  young, 

And  earth  and  heaven  were  new. 
And  His  immediate  presence  He 

From  human  hearts  withdrew, 
The  soul  perplexed  and  daily  vexed 

With  sensuous  False  and  True, 
Amazed,  bereaved,  no  less  believed. 

And  fain  would  see  Him  too : 

*  He  is ! '  the  prophet-tongues  proclaimed ; 

In  joy  and  hasty  fear, 

*  He  is  ! '  aloud  replied  the  crowd, 

*  Is  here,  and  here,  and  here.' 

'  He  is  !    They  are  ! '  in  distance  seen 
On  yon  Olympus  high. 


66  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

In  those  Avernian  woods  abide, 

And  walk  this  azure  sky : 
*  They  are  !     They  are  ! '  —  to  every  show 

Its  eyes  the  baby  turned, 
And  blazes  sacrificial,  tall, 

On  thousand  altars  burned : 
'  They  are  !     They  are  ! '  —  On  Sinai's  top 

Far  seen  the  lightnings  shone. 
The  thunder  broke,  a  trumpet  spoke, 

And  God  said,  '  I  am  One.' 

God  spake  it  out,  *  I,  God,  am  One ; ' 

The  unheeding  ages  ran. 
And  baby-thoughts  again,  again. 

Have  dogged  the  growing  man: 
And  as  of  old  from  Sinai's  top 

God  said  that  God  is  One, 
By  Science  strict  so  speaks  He  now 

To  tell  us,  There  is  None ! 
Earth  goes  by  chemic  forces ;  Heaven's 

A  Mecanique  Celeste ! 
And  heart  and  mind  of  human  kind 

A  watch-work  as  the  rest ! 

Is  this  a  Voice,  as  was  the  Voice, 

Whose  speaking  told  abroad, 
When  thunder  pealed,  and  mountain  reeled, 

The  ancient  truth  of  God  ? 
Ah,  not  the  Voice;  'tis  but  the  cloud, 

The  outer  darkness  dense. 
Where  image  none,  nor  e'er  was  seen 

Similitude  of  sense. 
'Tis  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense 

That  wrapt  the  Mount  around; 
While  in  amaze  the  people  stays, 

To  hear  the  Coming  Sound. 

Is  there  no  prophet-soul  the  while 

To  dare,  sublimely  nieek. 
Within  the  shroud  of  blackest  cloud 

■  The  Deity  to  seek  ? 
'Midst  atheistic  systems  dark. 

And  darker  hearts'  despair, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  67 

That  soul  has  heard  perchance  His  word, 

And  on  the  dusky  air 
His  skirts,  as  passed  He  by,  to  see 

Hath  strained  on  their  behalf, 
Who  on  the  plain,  with  dance  amain, 

Adore  the  Golden  Calf. 


'Tis  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense ; 

Though  blank  the  tale  it  tells, 
No  God,  no  Truth!  yet  He,  in  sooth, 

Is  there  —  within  it  dwells ; 
Within  the  sceptic  darkness  deep 

He  dwells  that  none  may  see. 
Till  idol  forms  and  idol  thoughts 

Have  passed  and  ceased  to  be : 
No  God,  no  Truth !  ah  though,  in  sooth 

So  stand  the  doctrine's  half : 
On  Egypt's  track  return  not  back, 

Nor  own  the  Golden  Calf. 

Take  better  part,  with  manlier  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can; 
No  God,  no  Truth,  receive  it  ne'er  — 

Believe  it  ne'er  —  0  Man ! 
But  turn  not  then  to  seek  again 

What  first  the  ill  began ; 
No  God,  it  saith ;  ah,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self -completing  plan ; 
Receive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not. 

And  wait  it  out,  0  Man ! 

'  The  Man  that  went  the  cloud  within 

Is  gone  and  vanished  quite ; 
He  Cometh  not,'  the  people  cries, 

'  Nor  bringeth  God  to  sight : 
Lo  these  thy  gods,  that  safety  give. 

Adore  and  keep  the  feast ! ' 
Deluding  and  deluded  cries 

The  Prophet's  brother-Priest : 
And  Israel  all  bows  down  to  fall 

Before  the  gilded  beast. 


68  C LOUGH'S   POEMS. 

Devout,  indeed !  that  priestly  creed, 

0  Man,  reject  as  sin; 
The  clouded  hill  attend  thou  still, 

And  him  that  Avent  within. 
He  yet  shall  bring  some  worthy  thing 

For  waiting  souls  to  see : 
Some  sacred  word  that  he  hath  heard 

Their  light  and  life  shall  be ; 
Some  lofty  part,  than  which  the  heart 

Adopt  no  nobler  can, 
Thou  shalt  receive,  thou  shalt  believe 

And  thou  shalt  do,  0  Man ! 
1845. 


QUI   LABORAT,   ORAT. 

0  ONLY  Source  of  all  our  light  and  life, 

Whom  as  our  truth,  our  strength,  we  see  and  feel, 

But  whom  the  hours  of  mortal  moral  strife 
Alone  aright  reveal ! 

Mine  inmost  soul,  before  Thee  inly  brought, 

Thy  presence  owns  ineffable,  divine ; 
Chastised  each  rebel  self-encentred  thought. 

My  will  adoreth  Thine. 

With  eye  down-dropt,  if  then  this  earthly  mind 
Speechless  remain,  or  speechless  e'en  depart ; 

Nor  seek  to  see  —  for  wh.at  of  eavtlily  kind 
Can  see  Thee  as  Thou  art  ?  — 

If  well-assured  'tis  but  profanely  bold 

In  thought's  abstractest  forms  to  s(!em  to  see, 

It  dare  not  dare  the  dread  communion  hold 
In  ways  unworthy  Thee, 

0  not  unowned,  thou  shalt  unnamed  forgive. 
In  worldly  walks  the  prayerless  heart  prepare ; 

And  if  in  work  its  life  it  seem  to  live, 
Shalt  make  that  work  be  prayer. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  ( 

Nor  times  shall  lack,  when  while  the  work  it  plies, 
Unsummonecl  powers  the  blinding  film  shall  part, 

And  scarce  by  happy  tears  made  dim,  the  eyes 
In  recognition  start. 

But,  as  thou  wiliest,  give  or  e'en  forbear 

The  beatific  supersensual  sight, 
So,  with  Thy  blessing  blest,  that  humbler  prayer 

Approach  Thee  morn  and  night. 


v/ivos    av/Avo$. 


0  Thou  whose  image  in  the  shrine 
Of  human  spirits  dwells  divine ; 
Which  from  that  precinct  once  conveyed, 
To  be  to  outer  day  displayed, 
Doth  vanish,  part,  and  leave  behind 
Mere  blank  and  void  of  empty  mind, 
Which  wilful  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
With  casual  shapes  to  fill  again ! 

0  Thou  that  in  our  bosom's  shrine 
Dost  dwell,  unknown  because  divine ! 

1  thought  to  speak,  I  thought  to  say, 
'  The  light  is.  here,'  '  behold  the  way,' 

'  The  voice  was  thus,'  and  *  thus  the  word,' 
And  *  thus  I  saw,'  and  '  that  I  heard,'  — 
But  from  the  lips  that  half  essayed 
The  imperfect  utterance  fell  luimade. 

0  Thou,  in  that  mysterious  shrine 
Enthroned,  as  I  must  say,  divine  ! 

1  will  not  frame  one  thought  of  what 
Thou  mayest  either  be  or  not. 

I  will  not  prate  of  '  thus '  and  '  so,' 
And  be  profane  with  '  yes '  and  '  no,' 
Enough  that  in  our  soul  and  heart 
Thou,  whatsoe'er  Thou  mayst  be,  art. 


70  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Unseen,  secure  in  that  high  shrine 
Acknowledged  present  and  divine, 
I  will  not  ask  some  upper  air, 
Some  future  day  to  place  Thee  there ; 
Nor  say,  nor  yet  deny,  such  men 
And  women  saw  Thee  thus  and  then : 
Thy  name  was  such,  and  there  or  here 
To  him  or  her  Thou  didst  appear. 

Do  .only  Thou  in  that  dim  shrine, 
Unknown  or  known,  remain,  divine ; 
There,  or  if  not,  at  least  in  eyes 
That  scan  the  fact  that  round  them  lies 
The  hand  to  sway,  the  judgment  guide, 
In  sight  and  sense  Thyself  divide  : 
Be  Thou  but  there,  —  in  soul  and  heart, 
I  will  not  ask  to  feel  Thou  art. 


THE  HIDDEN  LOVE. 

0  LET  me  love  my  love  unto  myself  alone. 

And  know  my  knowledge  to  the  world  unknown ; 

No  witness  to  my  vision  call, 

Beholding,  unbeheld  of  all ; 

And  worship  Thee,  with  Thee  withdrawn  apart, 

Whoe'er,  Whate'er  Thou  art, 

Within  the  closest  veil  of  mine  own  inmost  heart. 

What  is  it  then  to  me 

If  others  are  in(pusitive  to  see  ? 

Why  should  I  quit  my  place  to  go  and  ask 

If  other  men  are  working  at  tlieir  task  ? 

Leave  my  own  buried  roots  to  go 

And  see  that  brother  plants  shall  grow ; 

And  turn  away  from  Thee,  0  Thou  most  Holy  Light, 

To  look  if  other  orbs  their  orbits  keep  aright. 

Around  their  proper  sun. 

Deserting  Thee,  and  being  undone. 

O  let  me  love  my  love  unto  myself  alone. 

And  know  my  knowledge  to  the  world  unknown  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  71 

And  worship  Thee,  0  hid  One,  0  much  sought, 
As  but  man  can  or  ought. 

Within  the  abstracted'st  shrine  of  my  least  breathed-on 
thought. 

Better  it  were,  thou  sayest,  to  consent ; 

Feast  while  we  may,  and  live  ere  life  be  spent ; 

Close  up  clear  eyes,  and  call  the  unstable  sure, 

The  unlovely  lovely,  and  the  filthy  pure ; 

In  self-belyings,  self-deceivings  roll, 

And  lose  in  Action,  Passion,  Talk,  the  soul. 

Nay,  better  far  to  mark  off  thus  much  air. 
And  call  it  Heaven :  place  bliss  and  glory  there ; 
Fix  perfect  homes  in  the  unsubstantial  sky. 
And  say,  what  is  not,  will  be  by  and  by. 


SHADOW  AND  LIGHT. 

Cease,  empty  Faith,  the  Spectrum  saith, 

I  was,  and  lo,  have  been ; 
I,  God,  am  nought :  a  shade  of  thought. 

Which,  but  by  darkness  seen. 
Upon  the  unknown  yourselves  have  thrown, 

Placed  it  and  light  between. 

At  morning's  birth  on  darkened  earth, 

And  as  the  evening  sinks. 
Awfully  vast  abroad  is  cast 

The  lengthened  form  that  shrinks 
And  shuns  the  sight  in  midday  light, 

And  underneath  you  slinks. 

From  barren  strands  of  wintry  lands 

Across  the  seas  of  time. 
Borne  onward  fast  ye  touch  at  last 

An  equatorial  clime ; 

In  equatorial  noon  sublime 

At  Zenith  stands  the  sun, 
And  lo,  around,  far,  near,  are  found 

Yourselves,  and  Shadow  none. 


72  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

A  moment !   yea  !  but  when  the  day 

At  length  was  perfect  day  ! 
A  moment !  so !  and  light  we  know 

With  dark  exchanges  aye, 

Nor  morn  nor  eve  shall  shadow  leave 

Your  sunny  paths  secure, 
And  in  your  sight  that  orb  of  light 

Shall  humbler  orbs  obscure. 

And  yet  withal,  'tis  shadow  all 
Whate'er  your  fancies  dream, 

And  I  (misdeemed)  that  was,  that  seemed. 
Am  not,  whate'er  I  seem. 


<WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS,  NEITHER 
SHADOW  OF  TURNING.' 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know  (, 

That,  though  I  perish,  Truth  is  so :  . 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range,  ' 
Whate'er  I  do.  Thou  dost  not  change.  1 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall  | 

That,  if  I  slip.  Thou  dost  not  fall.         y 


IN   STRATIS  VIARUM. 

Blessed  are  those  who  have  not  seen, 
And  who  have  yet  believed 

The  witness,  here  that  has  not  been. 
From  heaven  they  have  received. 

Blessed  are  those  who  have  not  known 
The  things  that  stand  before  them, 

And  for  a  vision  of  their  own 
Can  piously  ignore  them. 

So  let  me  think  whate'er  befall. 
That  in  the  city  duly 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  73 

Some  men  there  are  who  love  at  all, 
Some  women  who  love  truly ; 

And  that  upon  two  millions  odd 

Transgressors  in  sad  plenty,   ■ 
Mercy  will  of  a  gracious  God 

Be  shown  —  because  of  twenty. 


PEECHi:   PENSA?     PENSANDO   S'lNVECCHIA. 

To  spend  uncounted  years  of  pain,   . 

Again,  again,  and  yet  again. 

In  working  out  in  heart  and  brain     \ 

The  problem  of  our  being  here ;  i 
To  gather  facts  from  far  and  near,      \ 
Upon  the  mind  to  hold  them  clear,      i 
And,  knowing  more  may  yet  appear, 
Unto  one's  latest  breath  to  fear,  i 

The  premature  result  to  draw  —  ' 

Is  this  the  object,  end  and  law,  j 

And  purpose  of  our  being  here  ? 


*0  THOU  OF  LITTLE  FAITH.' 

It  may  be  true 
That  while  we  walk  the  troublous  tossing  sea,        \ 
That  when  we  see  the  o'ertopping  waves  advance, 
And  when  we  feel  our  feet  beneath  us  sink, 
There  are  who  walk  beside  us ;  and  the  cry 
That  rises  so  spontaneous  to  the  lips. 
The  *  Help  us  or  we  perish,'  is  not  nought. 
An  evanescent  spectrum  of  disease. 
It  may  be  that  indeed  and  not  in  fancy, 
A  hand  that  is  not  ours  upstays  our  steps, 
A  voice  that  is  not  ours  commands  the  waves ; 
Commands  the  waves,  and  Avhispers  in  our  ear, 

0  thou  of  little  faith,  why  didst  thou  doubt  ? 
At  any  rate. 

That  there  are  beings  above  us,  I  believe. 
And  when  we  lift  up  holy  hands  of  prayer, 

1  will  not  say  they  will  not  give  us  aid. 


74  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 


'THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY.     If 

What  we,  -when  face  to  face  we  see 
The  Father  of  our  souls,  shall  be, 
John  tells  us,  doth  not  yet  appear ; 
Ah !  did  he  tell  what  we  are  here ! 

A  mind  for  thoughts  to  pass  into, 
A  heart  for  loves  to  travel  through, 
Five  senses  to  detect  things  near. 
Is  this  the  whole  that  we  are  here  ? 

Rules  baffle  instincts  —  instincts  rules, 
Wise  men  are  bad  —  and  good  are  fools, 
Facts  evil  —  wishes  vain  appear. 
We  cannot  go,  why  are  we  here  ? 

0  may  we  for  assurance'  sake. 
Some  arbitrary  judgment  take. 
And  wilfully  pronounce  it  clear, 
For  this  or  that  'tis  we  are  here  ? 

Or  is  it  right,  and  will  it  do, 
To  pace  the  sad  confusion  through. 
And  say :  —  It  doth  not  yet  appear, 
What  we  shall  be,  what  we  are  here  ? 

Ah  yet,  when  all  is  thought  and  said. 
The  heart  still  overrules  the  head ; 
Still  what  we  hope  we  must  believe, 
And  what  is  given  us  receive ; 

Must  still  believe,  for  still  we  hope 
That  in  a  world  of  larger  scope, 
What  here  is  faithfully  begun 
Will  be  completed,  not  undone. 

My  child,  we  still  must  think,  when  we 
That  ampler  life  together  see. 
Some  true  result  will  yet  appear 
Of  what  we  are,  together,  here. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  76 


AH !  YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN ! 

'  Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true/ 
0  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new ; 
Ah  !  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain, 
And  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
And  all  the  earnings  of  their  pain,  — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again ! 

We !  what  do  we  see  ?  each  a  space 
Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face ; 
Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain  ? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again !    . 

Alas  !  the  great  world  goes  its  way, 
And  takes  its  truth  from  each  new  day ; 
They  do  not  quit,  nor  can  retain, 
Far  less  consider  it  again. 
1851. 


NOLI  ^MULARI. 

In  controversial  foul  impureness 
The  peace  that  is  thy  light  to  thee 

Quench  not :  in  faith  and  inner  sureness 
Possess  thy  soul  and  let  it  be. 

No  violence  —  perverse  —  persistent  — 
What  cannot  be  can  bring  to  be ; 

No  zeal  what  is  make  more  existent, 
And  strife  but  blinds  the  eyes  that  see. 

What  though  in  blood  their  souls  embruing. 
The  great,  the  good  and  wise  they  curse. 

Still  sinning,  what  they  know  not  doing ; 
Stand  still,  forbear,  nor  make  it  worse. 


76  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

By  curg'es,  by  denunciation, 

The  coming  fate  tliey  cannot  stay ; 

Nor  thou,  by  fiery  indignation. 
Though  just,  accelerate  the  day. 


'WHAT  WENT  YE  OUT  FOR  TO  SEE?'   ^ 

Across  the  sea,  along  the  shore, 

In  numbers  more  and  ever  more, 

From  lonely  hut  and  busy  town, 

The  valley  through,  the  mountain  down, 

What  was  it  ye  went  out  to  see, 

Ye  silly  folk  of  Galilee  ? 

The  reed  that  in  the  wind  doth  shake? 

The  weed  that  washes  in  the  lake  ? 

The  reeds  that  waver,  the  weeds  that  float  ?  — 

A  young  man  preaching  in  a  boat. 

What  was  it  ye  went  out  to  hear 
By  sea  and  land,  from  far  and  near  ? 
A  teacher  ?     Rather  seek  the  feet 
Of  those  who  sit  in  Moses'  seat. 
Go  humbly  seek  and  bow  to  them, 
Far  off  in  great  Jerusalem. 
From  them  that  in  her  courts  ye  saw, 
Her  perfect  doctors  of  the  law, 
What  is  it  came  ye  here  to  note  ?  — 
A  young  man  preaching  in  a  boat. 

A  prophet !     Boys  and  women  weak ! 

Declare,  or  cease  to  rave ; 
Whence  is  it  he  hath  learned  to  speak  ? 

Say,  who  his  doctrine  gave  ? 
A  prophet  ?     Prophet  wherefore  he 

Of  all  in  Israel  tribes  ?  — 
He  teacJietli  tvith  authority, 

And  not  as  do  the  Scribes. 
1851. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  77 


EPI-STEAUSS-IUM. 

Matthew  and  Mark  and  Luke  and  holy  John 
Evanished  all  and  gone ! 
Yea,  he  that  erst  his  dusky  curtains  quitting, 
Thro'   Eastern  pictured   panes   his   level    beams  trans- 
mitting, 
With  gorgeous  portraits  blent, 
On  them  his  glories  intercepted  spent : 
Southwestering  now,  thro'  windows  plainly  glassed, 
On  the  inside  face  his  radiance  keen  hath  cast. 
And  in  the  lustre  lost,  invisible  and  gone, 
Are,  say  you,  Matthew,  Mark  and  Luke  and  holy  John  ? 
Lost,  is  it,  lost,  to  be  recovered  never  ? 
However, 

The  place  of  worship  the  meantime  with  light 
Is,  if  less  richly,  more  sincerely  bright. 
And  in  blue  skies  the  Orb  is  manifest  to  sight. 


;  THE  SHADOW.^   I  I 

I  DREAMED  a  dream :  I  dreamt  that  I  espied, 

Upon  a  stone  that  was  not  rolled  aside, 

A  Shadow  sit  upon  a  grave  —  a  Shade, 

As  thin,  as  unsubstantial,  as  of  old 

Came,  the  Greek  poet  told. 

To  lick  the  life-blood  in  the  trench.  Ulysses  made  — 

As  pale,  as  thin,  and  said : 

*  I  am  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead. 

The  night  is  past,  the  morning  is  at  hand, 

And  I  must  in  my  proper  semblance  stand. 

Appear  brief  space  and  vanish,  —  listen,  this  is  true, 

I  am  that  Jesus  whom  they  slew.' 

And  shadows  dim,  I  dreamed,  the  dead  apostles  came. 
And  bent  their  heads  for  sorrow  and  for  shame  — 

1  The  manuscript  of  this  poeiti  is  incomplete ;  but  it  has  been  thought 
best  to  give  all  the  separate  fragments,  since  they  evidently  are  con- 
ceived ou  the  same  plan,  and  throw  light  ou  each  other. 


78  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Sorrow  for  their  great  loss,  and  shame 
For  what  they  did  in  that  vain  name. 

And  in  long  ranges  far  behind  there  seemed 

Pale  vapoury  angel  forms ;  or  was  it  cloud  ?  that  kept 

Strange  watch ;  the  women  also  stood  beside  and  wept. 

And  Peter  spoke  the  word : 
'  0  my  own  Lord, 
What  is  it  we  must  do  ? 
Is  it  then  all  untrue  ? 

Did  we  not  see,  and  hear,  and  handle  Thee, 
Yea,  for  whole  hours 
Upon  the  Mount  in  Galilee, 
On  the  lake  shore,  and  here  at  Bethany, 
When  Thou  ascendedst  to  Thy  God  and  ours  ?  ' 

And  paler  still  became  the  distant  cloud. 
And  at  the  word  the  women  wept  aloud. 

And  the  Shade  answered,  '  What  ye  say  I  know  not ; 

But  it  is  true 

I  am  that  Jesus  whom  they  slew, 
Whom  ye  have  preached,  but  in  what  way  I  know  not. 

****** 
And  the  great  World,  it  chanced,  came  by  that  way, 
And  stopped,  and  looked,  and  spoke  to  the  police, 
And  said  the  thing,  for  order's  sake  and  peace, 
Most  certainly  must  be  suppressed,  the  nuisance  cease. 
His  wife  and  daughter  must  have  where  to  pray. 
And  whom  to  pray  to,  at  the  least  one  day 
In  seven,  and  something  sensible  to  say. 

Whether  the  fact  so  many  years  ago 

Had,  or  not,  happened,  how  was  he  to  know  ? 

Yet  he  had  always  heard  that  it  was  so. 

As  for  himself,  perhaps  it  was  all  one ; 

And  yet  he  found  it  not  unpleasant,  too, 

On  Sunday  morning  in  the  roomy  pew. 

To  see  the  thing  with  such  decorum  done. 

As  for  himself,  perhaps  it  was  all  one ; 

Yet  on  one's  death-bed  all  men  always  said 

It  was  a  comfortable  thing  to  think  upon 

The  atonement  and  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

So  the  great  World  as  having  said  his  say. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  79 

Unto  his  country-house  pursued  his  way. 
And  on  the  grave  the  Shadow  sat  all  day. 

And  the  poor  Pope  was  sure  it  must  be  so, 

Else  wherefore  did  the  people  kiss  his  toe  ? 

Tlie  subtle  Jesuit  cardinal  shook  his  head, 

And  mildly  looked  and  said. 

It  mattered  not  a  jot 

Whether  the  thing,  indeed,  were  so  or  not ; 

Religion  must  be  kept  up,  and  the  Church  preserved, 

And  for  the  people  this  best  served, 

And  then  he  turned,  and  added  most  demurely, 

'  Whatever  may  befall. 

We  Catholics  need  no  evidence  at  all, 

The  holy  father  is  infallible,  surely !  * 

And  English  canons  heard. 

And  quietly  demurred. 

Eeligion  rests  on  evidence,  of  course. 

And  on  inquiry  we  must  put  no  force. 

Difficulties  still,  upon  whatever  ground. 

Are  likely,  almost  certain,  to  be  found. 

The  Theist  scheme,  the  Pantheist,  one  and  all, 

Must  with,  or  e'en  before,  the  Christian  fall. 

And  till  the  thing  were  plainer  to  our  eyes, 

To  disturb  faith  was  surely  most  unwise. 

As  for  the  Shade,  who  trusted  such  narration  ? 

Except,  of  course,  in  ancient  revelation. 

And  dignitaries  of  the  Church  came  by. 

It  had  been  worth  to  some  of  them,  they  said, 

Some  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year  a  head. 

If  it  fetched  so  much  in  the  market,  truly, 

'Twas  not  a  thing  to  be  given  up  unduly. 

It  had  been  proved  by  Butler  in  one  way, 

By  Paley  better  in  a  later  day ; 

It  had  been  proved  in  twenty  ways  at  once. 

By  many  a  doctor  plain  to  many  a  dunce ; 

There  was  no  question  but  it  must  be  so. 

And  the  Shade  answered  that  He  did  not  know ; 
He  had  no  reading,  and  might  be  deceived, 
But  still  He  was  the  Christ,  as  He  believed. 


80  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  women,  mild  and  pure, 

Forth  from  still  homes  and  village  schools  did  pass, 

And  asked,  if  this  indeed  were  thus,  alas. 

What  should  they  teach  their  children  and  the  poor  ? 

The  Shade  replied,  He  could  not  know, 
But  it  was  truth,  the  fact  was  so.  > 


Who  had  kept  all  commandments  from  his  youth 
Yet  still  found  one  thing  lacking — even  Truth: 
And  the  Shade  only  answered,  '  Go,  make  haste, 
Enjoy  thy  great  possessions  as  thou  mayst.' 


\\    EASTER  DAY.  \\ 


NAPLES,  1849. 

Through  the  great  sinful  streets  of  Naples  as  I  past, 
With  fiercer  heat  than  flamed  above  my  head 

My  heart  was  hot  within  me ;  till  at  last 

My  brain  was  lightened  when  my  tongue  had  said  - 
Christ  is  not  risen ! 

Christ  is  not  risen,  no  — 

He  lies  and  moulders  low ; 
Christ  is  not  risen ! 

What  though  the  stone  were  rolled  away,  and  though 

The  grave  found  empty  there  ?  — 

If  not  there,  then  elsewhere ; 
If  not  where  Joseph  laid  Him  first,  why  then 

Where  other  men 
Translaid  Him  after,  in  some  humbler  clay. 

Long  ere  to-day 
Corruption  that  sad  perfect  work  hath  done, 
Which  here  she  scarcely,  lightly  had  begun : 

The  foul  engendered  worm 
Feeds  on  the  flesh  of  the  life-giving  form 
Of  our  most  Holy  and  Anointed  One. 

He  is  not  risen,  no  — 

He  lies  and  moulders  low ; 
Christ  is  not  risen ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  81 

What  if  the  women,  ere  the  dawn  was  grey, 
Saw  one  or  more  great  angels,  as  they  say 
(Angels,  or  Him  himself)  ?     Yet  neither  there,  nor  then, 
Nor  afterwards,  nor  elsewhere,  nor  at  all, 
Hath  He  appeared  to  Peter  or  the  Ten ; 
Nor,  save  in  thunderous  terror,  to  blind  Saul ; 
Save  in  an  after  Gospel  and  late  Creed, 
He  is  not  risen,  indeed,  — 
Christ  is  not  risen ! 

Or,  what  if  e'en,  as  runs  a  tale,  the  Ten 

Saw,  heard,  and  touched,  again  and  yet  again  ? 

What  if  at  Emmails'  inn,  and  by  Capernaum's  Lake, 

Came  One,  the  bread  that  brake  — 
Came  One  that  spake  as  never  mortal  spake, 
And  with  them  ate,  and  drank,  and  stood,  and  walked  about? 

Ah !  '  some '  did  well  to  '  doubt ' ! 
Ah !  the  true  Christ,  while  these  things  came  to  pass. 
Nor  heard,  nor  spake,  nor  walked,  nor  lived,  alas  ! 

He  was  not  risen,  no  — 

He  lay  and  mouldered  low, 
Christ  was  not  risen ! 

As  circulates  in  some  great  city  crowd 

A  rumour  changeful,  vague,  importunate,  and  loud, 

From  no  determined  centre,  or  of  fact 

Or  authorship  exact, 

Which  no  man  can  deny 
Nor  verify ; 

So  spread  the  wondrous  fame; 

He  all  the  same 

Lay  senseless,  mouldering,  low: 

He  was  not  risen,  no— 
Christ  was  not  risen ! 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just  — 

•         Yea,  of  that  Just  One,  too ! 
This  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true — 
Christ  is  not  risen ! 

Is  He  not  risen,  and  shall  we  not  rise  ? 
Oh,  we  unwise ! 


82  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

What  did  we  dream,  what  wake  we  to  discover  ? 
Ye  hills,  fall  on  us,  and  ye  mountains,  cover ! 

In  darkness  and  great  gloom 
Come  ere  we  thought  it  is  our  day  of  doom; 
From  the  cursed  world,  which  is  one  tomb, 
Christ  is  not  risen ! 

Eat,  drink,  and  play,  and  think  that  this  is  bliss : 
There  is  no  heaven  but  this ; 

There  is  no  hell. 
Save  earth,  which  serves  the  purpose  doubly  well, 

Seeing  it  visits  still 
With  equalest  apportionment  of  ill 
Both  good  and  bad  alike,  and  brings  to  one  same  dust 

The  unjust  and  the  just 

With  Christ,  who  is  not  risen.  ' 

Eat,  drink,  and  die,  for  we  are  souls  bereaved : 
Of  all  the  creatures  under  heaven's  wide  cope 
We  are  most  hopeless,  who  had  once  most  hope, 
And  most  beliefless,  that  had  most  believed. 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just — 
Yea,  of  that  Just  One  too ! 
It  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true — 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

Weep  not  beside  the  tomb, 

Ye  women,  unto  whom 
He  was  great  solace  while  ye  tended  Him ; 

Ye  who  with  napkin  o'er  the  head 
And  folds  of  linen  round  each  wounded  limb 

Laid  out  the  Sacred  Dead ; 
And  thou  that  bar'st  Him  in  thy  wondering  womb ; 
Yea,  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  depart, 
Bind  up  as  best  ye  may  your  own  sad  bleeding  heart : 
Go  to  your  homes,  your  living  children  tend, 

Your  earthly  spouses  love ; 

Set  your  affections  not  on  things  above. 
Which  moth  and  rust  corrupt,  which  quickliest  come  to 

end : 
Or  pray,  if  pray  ye  must,  and  pray,  if  pray  yc  can, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  83 

For  death  ;  since  dead  is  He  whom  ye  deemed  more  than 
man, 

Who  is  not  risen :  no  — 
But  lies  and  moulders  low  — 
Who  is  not  risen ! 

Ye  men  of  Galilee  ! 
Why  stand  ye  looking  up  to  heaven,  where  Him  ye  ne'er 

may  see, 
Neither  ascending  hence,  nor  returning  hither  again  ? 

Ye  ignorant  and  idle  fishermen  ! 
Hence  to  your  huts,  and  boats,  and  inland  native  shore, 

And  catch  not  men,  but  fish ; 

Whate'er  things  ye  might  wish, 
Him  neither  here  nor  there  ye  e'er  shall  meet  with  more. 

Ye  poor  deluded  youths,  go  home. 

Mend  the  old  nets  ye  left  to  roam. 

Tie  the  split  oar,  patch  the  torn  sail : 

It  was  indeed  an  '  idle  tale '  — 
He  was  not  risen ! 

And,  oh,  good  men  of  ages  yet  to  be. 

Who  shall  believe  because  ye  did  not  see  — 

Oh,  be  ye  warned,  be  wise ! 

No  more  with  pleading  eyes. 

And  sobs  of  strong  desire, 

Unto  the  empty  vacant  void  aspire. 
Seeking  another  and  impossible  birth 
That  is  not  of  your  own,  and  only  mother  earth. 
But  if  there  is  no  other  life  for  you. 
Sit  down  and  be  content,  since  this  must  even  do : 
He  is  not  risen  ! 

One  look,  and  then  depart, 

Ye  humble  and  ye  holy  men  of  heart ; 
And  ye !  ye  ministers  and  stewards  of  a  Word 
Which  ye  would  preach,  because  another  heard  — 

Ye  worshippers  of  that  ye  do  not  know, 

Take  these  things  hence  and  go :  — 
He  is  not  risen ! 

Here,  on  our  Easter  Day 
We  rise,  we  come,  and  lo !  we  find  Him  not, 


84  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Gardener  nor  other,  on  the  sacred  spot : 
Where  they  have  laid  Him  there  is  none  to  say  ; 
No  sound,  nor  in,  nor  out  —  no  word 
Of  where  to  seek  the  dead  or  meet  the  living  Lord. 
There  is  no  glist^ing  of  an  angel's  wings, 
There  is  no  voice  of  heavenly  clear  behest : 
Let  us  go  hence,  and  think  upon  these  things 
lu  silence,  which  is  best. 
Is  He  not  risen  ?     No  — 
But  lies  and  moulders  low  ? 
Christ  is  not  risen  ? 


^\  EASTER  DAY.  \\ 


II. 

So  in  the  sinful  streets,  abstracted  and  alone, 

I  with  my  secret  self  held  communing  of  mine  own. 

So  in  the  southern  city  spake  the  tongue 
Of  one  that  somewhat  overwildly  sung. 
But  in  a  later  hour  I  sat  and  heard 
Another  voice  that  spake  —  another  graver  word. 
Weep  not,  it  bade,  whatever  hath  been  said, 
Though  He  be  dead,  He  is  not  dead. 

In  the  true  creed 

He  is  yet  risen  indeed ; 
Christ  is  yet  risen. 

Weep  not  beside  His  tomb, 

Ye  women  unto  whom 

He  was  great  comfort  and  yet  greater  grief ; 

Nor  ye,  ye  faithful  few  that  wont  with  Him  to  roam, 

Seek  sadly  what  for  Him  ye  left,  go  hopeless  to  your  home; 

Nor  ye  despair,  ye  sharers  yet  to  be  of  their  belief; 

Though  He  be  dead,  He  is  not  dead. 

Nor  gone,  though  fled, 

Not  lost,  though  vanished ; 

Though  He  return  not,  though 

He  lies  and  moulders  low; 

In  the  true  creed 

He  is  yet  risen  indeed  ; 
Christ  is  yet  risen. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  85 

Sit  if  ye  will,  sit  down  upon  the  ground, 

Yet  not  to  weep  and  wail,  but  calmly  look  around. 

Whate'er  befell, 

Earth  is  not  hell ; 
Now,  too,  as  when  it  first  began, 
Life  is  yet  life,  and  man  is  man. 
For  all  that  breathe  beneath  the  heaven's  high  cope, 
Joy  with  grief  mixes,  with  despondence  hope. 
Hope  conquers  cowardice,  joy  grief : 
Or  at  least,  faith  unbelief. 

Though  dead,  not  dead; 

Not  gone,  though  fled; 

Not  lost,  though  vanished. 

In  the  great  gospel  and  true  creed, 

He  is  yet  risen  indeed ; 
Christ  is  yet  risen. 


DIPSYCHUS.^ 


oXXc 


PROLOG  up:  to  dipsychus. 

*I  HOPE  it  is  ill  good  plain  verse,'  said  my  uncle,  —  'none  of 
your  hurry-scurry  anapaests,  as  you  call  them,  in  lines  which 
sober  people  read  for  plain  heroics.  Nothing  is  more  disagree- 
able than  to  say  a  line  over  two  or,  it  may  be,  three  or  four 
times,  and  at  last  not  be  sure  that  there  are  not  three  or  four 
ways  of  reading,  each  as  good  and  as  much  intended  as  another. 
Simplex  duntaxat  et  unum.  But  you  young  people  think  Horace 
and  your  uncles  old  fools.' 

'  Certainly,  my  dear  sir,'  said  I ;  '  that  is,  I  mean,  Horace  and 
my  uncle  are  perfectly  right.  Still,  there  is  an  instructed  ear 
and  an  uninstructed.  A  I'ude  taste  for  identical  recurrences 
would  exact  sing-song  from  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  grumble 
because  "  II  Penseroso "  doesn't  run  like  a  nursery  rhyme.' 
'  Well,  well,'  said  my  uncle,  '  sunt  certi  denique  fines,  no  doubt. 
So  commence,  my  young  Piso,  while  Aristarchus  is  tolerably 
wakeful,  and  do  not  waste  by  your  logic  the  fund  you  will  want 
for  your  poetry.' 

Part  I.  —  Scexe  I. 

The  Piazza  at  Venice,  9  P.M.     Dipsychus  and  the  Spirit. 

Di.   The  scene  is  different,  and  the  place,  the  air 
Tastes  of  the  nearer  north ;   the  people 
Not  perfect  southern  lightness ;  wherefore,  then, 
Should  those  old  verses  come  into  my  mind 
I  made  last  year  at  Naples  ?     Oh,  poor  fool ! 
Still  resting  on  thyself  —  a  thing  ill-worked  — 
A  moment's  thought  committed  on  the  moment 

1  This  poem,  as  well  as  the  '  Mari  Magiio,'  was  not  pnhlished  dur- 
ing the  author's  lifetime,  and  should  not  he  regarded  as  having  re- 
ceived his  finishiug  touches. 

87 


88  .     C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

To  unripe  words  and  rugged  verse :  — 

'  Through  the  great  sinful  streets  of  Naples  as  I  past, 

With  fiercer  heat  than  flamed  above  my  head 
My  heart  was  hot  within  me ;  till  at  last 

My  brain  was  lightened  when  my  tongue  had  said  — 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! ' 

Sp.   Christ  is  not  risen  ?     Oh,  indeed, 

I  didn't  know  that  was  your  creed. 

Di.    So  it  went  on,  too  lengthy  to  repeat  — 
'  Christ  is  not  risen.' 

Sp.  Dear,  how  odd ! 

He'll  tell  us  next  there  is  no  God. 
I  thought  'twas  in  the  Bible  plain. 
On  the  third  day  He  rose  again. 

Di.  '  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just  — 
Yea,  of  that  Just  One,  too ! 
Is  He  not  risen,  and  shall  we  not  rise  ? 
Oh,  we  unwise ! ' 

Sp.   H'm  !  and  the  tone,  then,  after  all, 
Something  of  the  ironical  ? 
Sarcastic,  say ;  or  were  it  fitter 
To  style  it  the  religious  bitter  ? 

Di.    Interpret  it  I  cannot.     I  but  wrote  it  — 
At  Naples,  truly,  as  the  preface  tells, 
Last  year,  in  the  Toledo ;  it  came  on  me, 
And  did  me  good  at  once.     At  Naples  then, 
At  Venice  now.     Ah !  and  I  think  at  Venice 
Christ  is  not  risen  either. 

Sp.  Nay, 

Such  things  don't  fall  out  every  day : 
Having  once  happened,  as  we  know, 
In  Palestine  so  long  ago, 
How  should  it  now  at  Venice  here 
Where  people,  true  enough,  appear 
To  appreciate  more  and  understand 
Their  ices,  and  their  Austrian  baud 
And  dark-eyed  girls. 

Di.  The  whole  great  square  they  fill, 

From  the  red  flaunting  streamers  on  the  staffs, 
And  that  barbaric  portal  of  St.  Mark's, 
To  where,  unnoticed,  at  the  darker  end, 
I  sit  upon  my  step  —  one  great  gay  crowd. 


DIPSYCHUS.  89 

The  Campanile  to  the  silent  stars 
Goes  up,  above  —  its  apex  lost  in  air  — 
While  these  do  what  ? 

SiJ.  Enjoy  the  minute, 

And  the  substantial  blessings  in  it : 
Ices,  par  exemple;  evening  air, 
Company,  and  this  handsome  square ; 
And  all  the  sweets  in  perfect  plenty 
Of  the  old  dolce  far  niente. 
IMusic  !     Up,  up ;  it  isn't  fit 
With  beggars  here  on  steps  to  sit. 
Up,  to  the  caffe !  take  a  chair. 
And  join  the  wiser  idlers  there. 
And  see  that  fellow  singing  yonder ; 
Singing,  ye  gods,  and  dancing  too  — 
Tooraloo,  tooraloo,  tooraloo,  loo  — 
Fiddledi  diddledi,  diddle  di  di ; 
Figaro  sk,  Figaro  giu  — 
Figaro  qud.,  Figaro  Id,! 
How  he  likes  doing  it  —  Ha,  ha ! 

Di.   While  these  do  what  ?     Ah,  heaven !  too  true,  at 
Venice 
Christ  is  not  risen  either. 


Scene  II.  —  Tlie  Public  Garden. 

Di.     Assuredly,  a  lively  scene ! 
And,  ah,  how  pleasant  something  green ! 
AVith  circling  heavens  one  perfect  rose 
Each  smoother  patch  of  water  glows. 
Hence  to  where,  o'er  the  full  tide's  face, 
We  see  the  Palace  and  the  Place, 
And  the  white  dome ;  beauteous,  but  hot. 
Where  in  the  meantime  is  the  spot  — 
My  favourite  —  Where  by  masses  blue. 
And  white  cloud-folds,  I  follow  true 
The  great  Alps,  rounding  grandly  o'er. 
Huge  arc,  to  the  Dalmatian  shore  ? 

Sp.     This  rather  stupid  place,  to-day, 
It's  true,  is  most  extremely  gay  ; 
And  rightly  —  the  Assunzione 
AVas  always  a  gran'  funzione. 


90  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Di.     What  is  this  persecuting  voice  that  haunts  me  ? 
What  ?  whence  ?  of  whom  ?     How  am  I  to  detect  ? 
Myself  or  not  myself  ?     My  own  bad  thoughts, 
Or  some  external  agency  at  Avork, 
To  lead  me  who  knows  whither  ? 

Sp.  Eh  ? 

We're  certainly  in  luck  to-day : 
What  crowds  of  boats  before  us  plying  — 
Gay  parties,  singing,  shouting,  crying  — 
Saluting  others  past  them  flying ! 
What  numbers  at  the  causeway  lying ! 
What  lots  of  pretty  girls,  too,  hying 
Hither  and  thither  —  coming,  going, 
And  with  what  satisfaction  showing 
Their  dark  exuberance  of  hair. 
Black  eyes,  rich  tints,  and  sundry  graces 
Of  classic  pure  Italian  faces ! 

Di.  Ah  me,  me ! 

Clear  stars  above,  thou  roseate  westward  sky, 
Take  up  my  being  into  yours ;  assume 
My  sense  to  know  you  only ;  steep  my  brain 
In  your  essential  purity ;  or,  great  Alps, 
That  wrapping  round  your  heads  in  solemn  clouds 
Seem  sternly  to  sweep  past  our  vanities. 
Lead  me  with  you  —  take  me  away,  preserve  me ! 

0  moon  and  stars,  forgive !  and  thou,  clear  heaven, 
Look  pureness  back  into  me.     Oh,  great  God ! 
Why,  why,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace's  name, 
And  in  the  name  of  saints  and  saintly  thoughts. 
Of  mothers,  and  of  sisters,  and  chaste  wives. 
And  angel  woman-faces  we  have  seen. 
And  angel  woman-spirits  we  have  guessed. 
And  innocent  sweet  children,  and  pure  love, 
Why  did  I  ever  one  brief  moment's  space 
But  parley  with  this  filthy  Belial  ? 

Was  it  the  fear 

Of  being  behind  the  world,  which  is  the  wicked  ? 


Scene  III. — At  the  Hotel. 

Sp.  Come,  then, 

And  with  my  aid  go  into  good  society. 


DIPSYCHUS.  91 

Life  little  loves,  'tis  true,  this  peevish  piety ; 
E'en  they  with  whom  it  thinks  to  be  securest  — 
Your  most  religious,  delicatest,  purest  — 
Discern,  and  show  as  pious  people  can 
Their  feeling  that  you  are  not  quite  a  man. 
Still  the  thing  has  its  place ;  and  with  sagacity, 
Much  might  be  done  by  one  of  your  capacity. 
A  virtuous  attachment  formed  judiciously 
Would  come,  one  sees,  uncommonly  propitiously : 
Turn  you  but  your  affections  the  right  way, 
And  what  mayn't  happen  none  of  us  can  say ; 
For  in  despite  of  devils  and  of  mothers. 
Your  good  young  men  make  catches,  too,  like  others. 

Di.   To  herd  with  people  that  one  owns  no  care  for ; 
Friend  it  with  strangers  that  one  sees  but  once ; 
To  drain  the  heart  with  endless  complaisance ; 
To  warp  the  unfinished  diction  on  the  lip, 
And  twist  one's  mouth  to  counterfeit ;  enforce 
Reluctant  looks  to  falsehoods ;  base-alloy 
The  ingenuous  golden  frankness  of  the  past ; 
To  calculate  and  plot ;  be  rough  and  smooth, 
Forward  and  silent,  deferential,  cool, 
Not  by  one's  humour,  which  is  the  safe  truth, 
But  on  consideration. 

Sp.  That  is,  act 

On  a  dispassionate  judgment  of  the  fact ; 
Look  all  the  data  fairly  in  the  face, 
And  rule  your  judgment  simply  by  the  case. 

Di.   On  vile  consideration.     At  the  best, 
With  pallid  hotbed  courtesies  to  forestall 
The  green  and  vernal  spontaneity. 
And  waste  the  priceless  moments  of  the  man 
In  regulating  manner.     Whether  these  things 
Be  right,  I  do  not  know :  I  only  know  'tis 
To  lose  one's  you.th  too  early.     Oh,  not  yet  — 
Not  yet  I  make  the  sacrifice. 

Sp.  Du  tout ! 

To  give  up  nature's  just  what  would  not  do.  ] 

By  all  means  keep  your  sweet  ingenuous  graces,  /  ^^ 
And  use  them  at  the  proper  times  and  places. 
For  work,  for  play,  for  business,  talk  and  love, 
I  own  as  wisdom  truly  from  above. 
That  scripture  of  the  serpent  and  the  dove ; 


92  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

i  Nor's  auglit  so  perfect  for  the  world's  affairs 
As  the  old  parable  of  wheat  and  tares ; 

(What  we  all  love  is  good  touched  up  with  evil  —  I 
Religion's  self  must  have  a  spice  of  devil.  •' 

DL  Let  it  be  enough, 

That  in  our  needful  mixture  with  the  world. 
On  each  new  morning  with  the  rising  sun, 
Our  rising  heart,  fresh  from  the  seas  of  sleep, 
Scarce  o'er  the  level  lifts  his  purer  orb 
Ere  lost  and  sullied  with  polluting  smoke  — 
A  noonday  coppery  disk.     Lo,  scarce  come  forth, 
Some  vagrant  miscreant  meets,  and  with  a  look 
Transmutes  me  his,  and  for  a  whole  sick  day 
Lepers  me. 

Sp.  Just  the  one  thing,  I  assure  you. 

From  which  good  company  can't  but  secure  you. 
About  the  individual's  not  so  clear. 
But  who  can  doubt  the  general  atmosphere  ? 

Di.   Ay  truly,  who  at  first  ?  but  in  a  while • 

Sp.   0  dear,  this  o'er-discernment  makes  me  smile. 
You  don't  pretend  to  tell  me  you  can  see 
Without  one  touch  of  melting  sympathy 
Those  lovely,  stately  flowers  that  fill  with  bloom 
The  brilliant  season's  gay  parterre-like  room. 
Moving  serene  yet  swiftly  through  the  dances ; 
Those  graceful  forms  and  perfect  countenances. 
Whose  every  fold  and  line  in  all  their  dresses 
Something  refined  and  exquisite  expresses  ? 
To  see  them  smile  and  hear  them  talk  so  sweetly, 
In  me  destroys  all  lower  thoughts  completely ; 
1  really  seem,  without  exaggeration. 
To  experience  the  true  regeneration. 
One's  own  dress,  too  —  one's  manner,  what  one's  doing 
And  saying,  all  assist  to  one's  renewing. 
I  love  to  see,  in  these  their  fitting  places. 
The  bows,  the  forms,  and  all  you  call  grimaces. 
I  heartily  could  wish  we'd  kept  some  more  of  them. 
However  much  we  talk  about  the  bore  of  them. 
Fact  is,  your  awkward  parvenus  are  shy  at  it, 
Afraid  to  look  like  waiters  if  they  try  at  it. 
'Tis  sad  to  what  democracy  is  leading  — 
Give  me  your  Eighteenth  Century  for  high  breeding. 
Though  I  cau  put  up  gladly  with  the  present. 


DIPSYCHUS.  93 

And  quite  can  think  our  modern  parties  pleasant. 

One  shouldn't  analyse  the  thing  too  nearly : 

The  main  effect  is  admirable  clearly. 

'  Good  manners/  said  our  great-aunts,  '  next  to  piety : ' 

And  so  my  friend,  hurrah  for  good  society  ! 


Scene  IV.  —  On  the  Piazza. 

Sp.  Insulted  !  by  the  living  Lord ! 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
'  Fort,'  did  he  say  ?  a  German  brute, 
With  neither  heart  nor  brains  to  shoot. 

Di.   What  does  he  mean  ?    he's  wrong,  I  had  done 
nothing. 
'Twas  a  mistake  —  more  his,  I  am  sure,  than  mine. 
He  is  quite  wrong  —  I  feel  it.     Come,  let  us  go. 

Sp.  Go  up  to  him !  — -you  must,  that's  flat. 
Be  threatened  by  a  beast  like  that ! 

DL   He's  violent :  what  can  I  do  against  him  ? 
I  neither  wish  to  be  killed  nor  to  kill : 
What's  more,  I  never  yet  have  touched  a  sword, 
Nor  fired,  but  twice,  a  pistol  in  my  life. 

Sp.   Oh,  never  mind,  'twon't  come  to  fighting  — 
Only  some  verbal  small  requiting ; 
Or  give  your  card  —  we'll  do't  by  writing. 
He'll  not  stick  to  it.     Soldiers  too 
Are  cowards,  just  like  me  or  you. 
What !  not  a  single  word  to  throw  at 
This  snarling  dog  of  a  d d  Croat  ? 

DL   My  heavens !    why  should  I  care  ?    he  does  not 
hurt  me. 
If  he  is  wrong,  it  is  the  worst  for  him. 
I  certainly  did  nothing :  I  shall  go. 

Sp.   Did  nothing !  I  should  think  not ;  no, 
Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  be  sworn ! 
But,  O  my  friend,  well-bred,  well-born  — 
You  to  behave  so  in  these  quarrels 
Makes  me  half  doubtful  of  your  morals ! 

It  were  all  one. 

You  had  been  some  shopkeeper's  son. 

Whose  childhood  ne'er  was  shown  aught  better 

Than  bills  of  creditor  and  debtor. 


94  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

DL   By  heaven,  it  falls  from  off  me  like  the  rain 
From  the  oil-coat.     I  seem  in  spirit  to  see 
How  he  and  I  at  some  great  day  shall  meet 
Before  some  awfvil  judgment-seat  of  truth ; 
And  I  could  deem  that  I  behold  him  there 
Come  praying  for  the  pardon  I  give  now, 
Did  I  not  think  these  matters  too,  too  small 
For  any  record  on  the  leaves  of  time. 
O  thou  great  Watcher  of  this  noisy  world, 
What  are  they  in  Thy  sight  ?  or  what  in  his 
Wha finds  some  end  of  action  in  his  life? 
What  e'en  in  his  whose  sole  permitted  course 
Is  to  pursue  his  peaceful  byway  walk. 
And  live  his  brief  life  purely  in  Thy  sight. 
And  righte.ously  towards  his  brother-men  ? 

Sp.   And  whether,  so  you're  just  and  fair,  • 
Other  folks  are  so,  you  don't  care ; 
You  who  profess  more  love  than  others 
For  your  poor  sinful  human  brothers. 

DL   For  grosser  evils  their  gross  remedies 
The  laws  afford  us ;  let  us  be  content ; 
For  finer  wounds  the  law  would,  if  it  could, 
Find  medicine  too ;  it  cannot,  let  us  bear ; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  men's  tribes. 

Sp.   Because  we  can't  do  all  we  would, 
Does  it  follow,  to  do  nothing's  good  ? 
No  way  to  help  the  law's  rough  sense 
By  equities  of  self-defence  ? 
Well,  for  yourself  it  may  be  nice 
To  serve  vulgarity  and  vice : 
Must  sisters,  too,  and  wives  and  mothers, 
Fare  like  their  patient  sons  and  brothers  ? 

Di.   He  that  loves  sister,  mother,  more  than  me  - 

Sp.   But  the  injustice  —  the  gross  wrong! 
To  whom  on  earth  does  it  belong 
If  not  to  you,  to  whom  'twas  done, 
Who  saw  it  plain  as  any  sun, 
To  make  the  base  and  foul  offender 
Confess,  and  satisfaction  render  ? 
At  least  before  the  termination  of  it 
Prove  your  own  lofty  reprobation  of  it. 
Though  gentleness,  1  know,  was  born  in  you, 
Surely  you  have  a  little  scorn  in  you  ? 


DIPSYCHUS.  95 

Di.   Heaven  !  to  pollute  one's  fingers  to  pick  up 
The  fallen  coin  of  honour  from  the  dirt  — 
Pure  silver  though  it  be,  let  it  rather  lie ! 
To  take  up  any  offence,  where't  may  be  said 
That  temper,  vanity  — I  know  not  what  — 
Had  led  me  on ! 

To  have  so  much  as  e'en  half  felt  of  one 
That  ever  one  was  angered  for  oneself ! 
Beyond  suspicion  Caesar's  wife  should  be, 
Beyond  suspicion  this  bright  honour  shall. 
Did  he  say  scorn?     I  have  some  scorn,  thank  God. 

Sp.   Certainly.     Only  if  it's  so. 
Let  us  leave  Italy,  and  go 

Post  haste,  to  attend  —  you're  ripe  and  rank  for't  — 
The  great  peace-meeting  up  at  Frankfort. 
Joy  to  the  Croat !     Take  our  lives, 
Sweet  friends,  and  please  respect  our  wives  ; 
Joy  to  the  Croat !     Some  fine  day. 
He'll  see  the  error  of  his  way, 
No  doubt,  and  will  repent  and  pray. 
At  any  rate  he'll  open  his  eyes. 
If  not  before,  at  the  Last  Assize. 
Not,  if  I  rightly  understood  you. 
That  even  then  you'd  punish,  would  you  ? 
Nay,  let  the  hapless  soul  go  free  — 
Mere  murder,  crime,  or  robbery. 
In  whate'er  station,  age,  or  sex. 
Your  sacred  spirit  scarce  can  vex : 
De  minimis  non  curat  lex. 
To  the  Peace  Congress !  ring  the  bell ! 
Horses  to  Frankfort  and  to ! 

Di.    I  am  not  quite  in  union  with  myself 
On  this  strange  matter.     I  must  needs  confess 
Instinct  turns  instinct  out,  and  thought 
Wheels  round  on  thought.     To  bleed  for  others'  wrongs 
In  vindication  of  a  cause,  to  draw 
The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon  —  oh,  that  seems 
The  flower  and  top  of  life !     But  fight  because 
Some  poor  misconstruing  trifler  haps  to  say 
I  lie,  when  I  do  not  lie. 

Why  should  I  ?     Call  you  this  a  cause  ?    I  can't. 
Oh,  he  is  wrong,  no  doiibt ;   he  misbehaves  — 
But  is  it  worth  so  much  as  speaking  loud  ? 


96  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  things  so  merely  personal  to  myself 
Of  all  earth's  things  do  least  affect  myself. 

Sp.   Sweet  eloquence !  at  next  May  Meeting 
How  it  would  tell  in  the  repeating ! 
I  recognise,  and  kiss  the  rod  — 
The  methodistic  '  voice  of  God ' ; 
I  catch  contrite  that  angel  whine, 
That  snuffle  human,  yet  divine. 

Di.   It  may  be  I  am  somewhat  of  a  poltroon; 
I  never  fought  at  school ;  whether  it  be 
Some  native  poorness  in  my  spirit's  blood, 
Or  that  the  holy  doctrine  of  our  faith 
In  too  exclusive  fervency  possessed 
My  heart  with  feelings,  with  ideas  my  brain. 

Sj)-   Yes ;  you  would  argue  that  it  goes 
Against  the  Bible,  I  suppose ; 
But  our  revered  religion —  yes, 
Our  common  faith  —  seems,  I  confess, 
On  these  points  to  propose  to  address 
The  people  more  than  you  or  me  — 
At  best  the  vulgar  bourgeoisie. 
The  sacred  writers  don't  keep  count. 
But  still  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
Must  have  been  spoken,  by  what's  stated, 
To  hearers  by  the  thousands  rated. 
I  cuff  some  fellow;  mild  and  meek 
He  should  turn  round  the  other  cheek. 
For  him  it  may  be  right  and  good; 
We  are  not  all  of  gentle  blood 
Really,  or  as  such  understood. 

Di.   There  are  two  kindreds  upon  earth,  I  know  - 
The  oppressors  and  the  oppressed.     But  as  for  me. 
If  I  must  choose  to  inflict  wrong,  or  accept, 
May  my  last  end,  and  life  too,  be  with  these. 
Yes ;  whatsoe'er  the  reason,  want  of  blood, 
Lymphatic  humours,  or  my  childhood's  faith, 
So  is  the  thing,  and  be  it  well  or  ill, 
.  I  have  no  choice.     I  am  a  man  of  peace. 
And  the  old  Adam  of  the  gentleman 
Dares  seldom  in  my  bosom  stir  against 
The  mild  plebeian  Christian  seated  there. 

Sp.   Forgive  me,  if  I  name  my  doubt, 
Whether  you  know  'fort '  means  '  yet  out.' 


DIPSYCHUS.  97 


Scene  V.  —  The  Lido. 

Sp.    What  now  ?  the  Lido  shall  it  be  ? 
That  none  may  say  we  didn't  see 
The  ground  which  Byron  used  to  ride  on, 
And  do  I  don't  know  what  beside  on. 
Ho,  barca !  here  !  and  this  light  gale 
Will  let  us  run  it  with  a  sail. 

Di.   I  dreamt  a  dream  :  till  morning  light 
A  bell  rang  in  my  head  all  night, 
Tinkling  and  tinkling  first,  and  then 
Tolling  and  tinkling,  tolling  again, 
So  brisk  and  gay,  and  then  so  slow ! 
O  joy  and  terror !  mirth  and  woe ! 
Ting,  ting,  there  is  no  God ;  ting,  ting,  — 
Dong,  there  is  no  God;  dong, 
There  is  no  God ;  dong,  dong. 

Ting,  ting,  there  is  no  God ;  ting,  ting. 
Come,  dance  and  play,  and  merrily  sing, 
Staid  Englishman,  who  toil  and  slave 
From  your  first  childhood  to  your  grave, 
And  seldom  spend  and  always  save  — 
And  do  your  duty  all  your  life 
By  your  young  family  and  wife ; 
Come,  be't  not  said  you  ne'er  had  known 
What  earth  can  furnish  you  alone. 
The  Italian,  Frenchman,  German  even, 
Have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  heaven : 
And  you  still  linger  —  oh,  you  fool !  — 
Because  of  what  you  learnt  at  school. 
You  should  have  gone  at  least  to  college. 
And  got  a  little  ampler  knowledge. 
Ah  well,  and  yet  —  dong,  dong,  dong : 
Do  as  you  like,  as  now  you  do ; 
If  work's  a  cheat,  so's  pleasure  too. 
And  nothing's  new  and  nothing's  true ; 
Dong,  there  is  no  God ;  dong. 

O,  in  our  nook  unknown,  unseen, 
We'll  hold  our  fancy  like  a  screen 


98  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Us  and  the  dreadful  fact  between  ; 

And  it  shall  yet  be  long  —  ay,  long  — 

The  quiet  notes  of  our  low  song 

Shall  keep  us  from  that  sad  dong,  dong.  — 

Hark,  hark,  hark !  0  voice  of  fear. 

It  reaches  us  here,  even  here  ! 

Dong,  there  is  no  God  ;  dong. 

Ring  ding,  ring  ding,  tara,  tara. 

To  battle,  to  battle  —  haste,  haste  — 

To  battle,  to  battle  —  aha,  aha  ! 

On,  on  to  the  conqueror's  feast,      • 

From  east  to  west,  and  south  and  north, 

Ye  men  of  valour  and  of  worth, 

Ye  mighty  men  of  arms  come  forth. 

And  work  your  will,  for  that  is  just; 

And  in  your  impulse  put  your  trust, 

Beneath  your  feet  the  fools  are  dust. 

Alas,  alas !  0  grief  and  wrong, 

The  good  are  weak,  the  wicked  strong; 

And  0  my  God,  how  long,  how  long  ! 

Dong,  there  is  no  God ;  dong. 

Ring,  ting ;  to  bow  before  the  strong, 

There  is  a  rapture  too  in  this ; 

Work  for  thy  master,  work,  thou  slave  — 

He  is  not  merciful,  but  brave. 

Be't  joy  to  serve,  who  free  and  proud 

Scorns  thee  and  all  the  ignoble  crowd ; 

Take  that,  'tis  all  thou  art  allowed, 

Except  the  snaky  hope  that  they 

May  sometimes  serve  who  rule  to-day. 

Wlien,  by  hell-demons,  shan't  they  pay  ? 

O  wickedness,  0  shame  and  grief, 

And  heavy  load,  and  no  relief  ! 

0  God,  0  God !  and  which  is  worst, 

To  be  the  curser  or  the  curst, 

The  victim  or  the  murderer  ?     Dong. 

Dong,  there  is  no  God ;  dong. 

Ring  ding,  ring  ding,  tara,  tara, 

Away,  and  hush  that  preaching  —  fagh! 

Ye  vulgar  dreamers  about  peace. 


DIPSYCHUS.  99 


Who  offer  noblest  liearts,  to  heal 
The  teuderest  hurts  honour  can  feel, 
Paid  magistrates  and  the  police ! 

0  peddling  merchant-justice,  go, 
Exacter  rules  than  yours  we  know; 
Resentment's  rule,  and  that  high  law 
Of  whoso  best  the  sword  can  draw. 
Ah  well,  and  yet  —  dong,  dong,  dong. 
Go  on,  my  friends,  as  now  you  do ; 
LaAvyers  are  villains,  soldiers  too ; 
And  nothing's  new  and  nothing's  true. 
Dong,  there  is  no  God ;  dong. 

1  had  a  dream,  from  eve  to  light 
A  bell  went  sounding  all  the  night. 

Gay  mirth,  black  woe,  thin  joys,  huge  pain ; 
I  tried  to  stop  it,  but  in  vain. 
It  ran  right  on,  and  never  broke ; 
Only  when  day  began  to  stream 
Through  the  white  curtains  to  my  bed, 
And  like  an  angel  at  my  head 
Light  stood  and  touched  me —  I  awoke, 
And  looked,  and  said,  '  It  is  a  dream.' 

Sp.   Ah !  not  so  bad.     You've  read,  I  see, 
Your  Beranger,  and  thought  of  me. 
But  really  you  owe  some  apology 
For  harping  thus  upon  theology. 
I'm  not  a  judge,  I  own ;  in  short. 
Religion  may  not  be  my  forte. 
The  Church  of  England  I  belong  to. 
And  think  Dissenters  not  far  wrong  too; 
They're  vulgar  dogs  ;  but  for  his  creed, 

I  hold  that  no  man  will  be  d d. 

But  come  and  listen  in  your  turn. 

And  you  shall  hear  and  mark  and  learn. 

'  There  is  no  God,'  the  wicked  saith, 

'  And  truly  it's  a  blessing. 
For  what  He  might  have  done  with  us 

It's  better  only  guessing.' 


^ 


100  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

'  There  is  no  God,'  a  youngster  thinks, 

'  Or  really,  if  there  may  be, 
He  surely  didn't  mean  a  man 

Always  to  be  a  baby.' 

'  There  is  no  God,  or  if  there  is,' 

The  tradesman  thinks,  '  'twere  funny 

If  He  should  take  it  ill  in  me 
To  make  a  little  money.' 

*  Whether  there  be,'  the  rich  man  says, 

'  It  matters  very  little. 
For  I  and  mine,  thank  somebody, 

Are  not  in  want  of  victual.' 

Some  others,  also,  to  themselves. 
Who  scarce  so  much  as  doubt  it, 

Think  there  is  none,  when  they  are  well, 
And  do  not  think  about  it. 

But  country  folks  who  live  beneath 

The  shadow  of  the  steeple  ; 
The  parson  and  the  parson's  wife. 

And  mostly  married  people ; 

Youths  green  and  happy  in  first  love. 

So  thankful  for  illusion ; 
And  men  caught  out  in  what  the  world 

Calls  guilt,  in  first  confusion ; 

f^"  And  almost  every  one  when  age, 

Disease,  or  sorrows  strike  him, 
Inclines  to  think  there  is  a  God, 
>^  Or  something  very  like  Him. 

But  eccoci !  with  our  harchetta, 
Here  at  the  Sant'  Elisabetta. 

Di.   Vineyards  and  maize,  that's  pleasant  for  sore  eyes. 

Sp.    And  on  the  island's  other  side. 
The  j)lace  where  Murray's  faithful  Guide 
Informs  us  Byron  used  to  ride. 


DI PSYCH  us.  101 

Di.   The  trellised  vines !  enchanting !     Sandhills,  ho ! 
The  sea,  at  last  the  sea  —  the  real  broad  sea  — 
Beautiful !  and  a  glorious  breeze  upon  it. 

Sp.   Look  back ;  one  catches  at  this  station 
Lagoon  and  sea  in  combination. 

Di.   ©n  her  still  lake  the  city  sits. 
Where  bark  and  boat  around  her  flits, 
Nor  dreams,  her  soft  siesta  taking, 
Of  Adriatic  billows  breaking. 
I  do  ;  I  see  and  hear  them.     Come !  to  the  sea ! 
Oh,  a  grand  surge !  we'll  bathe ;  quick,  quick !  —  undress ! 
Quick,  quick !  —  in,  in ! 
We'll  take  the  crested  billows  by  their  backs 
And  shake  them.     Quick !  in,  in ! 

And  I  will  taste  again  the  old  joy 
I  gloried  in  so  when  a  boy ; 
Aha !  come,  come  —  great  waters,  roll ! 
Accept  me,  take  me,  body  and  soul ! 
That's  done  me  good.     It  grieves  me,  though, 
I  never  came  here  long  ago. 

Sp.   Pleasant,  perhaps ;  however,  no  offence, 
Animal  spirits  are  not  common  sense ; 
They're  good  enough  as  an  assistance, 
But  in  themselves  a  poor  existence. 
But  you,  with  this  one  bathe,  no  doubt. 
Have  solved  all  questions  out  and  out. 


Part  IL 

Scene  I.  —  The  interior  Arcade  of  the  Doge^s  Palace. 

Sp.   Thunder  and  rain  !     0  dear,  0  dear ! 
But  see,  a  noble  shelter  here. 
This  grand  arcade  where  our  Venetian 
Has  formed  of  Gothic  and  of  Grecian 
A  combination  strange,  but  striking, 
And  singularly  to  my  liking ! 
Let  moderns  reap  where  ancients  sowed, 
I  at  least  make  it  my  abode. 
And  now  let's  hear  your  famous  Ode : 
'  Through  the  great  sinful '  —  how  did  it  go  on  ? 
For  principles  of  Art  and  so  on 


102  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

I  care  perhaps  about  three  curses, 
But  hokl  myself  a  judge  of  verses. 

Di.    'My  brain  was  lightened  when  my  tongue  had 
said,  "  Christ  is  not  risen." ' 

****** 

Sp.   Well,  now  it's  anything  but  clear  * 

What  is  the  tone  that's  taken  here : 
What  is  your  logic  ?  what's  your  theology  ? 
Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  neology  ? 
That's  a  great  fault ;  you're  this  and  that, 
And  here  and  there,  and  nothing  flat ; 
,  ^  J  Yet  writing's  golden  word  what  is  it, 
m.  But  the  three  syllables  '  explicit '  ? 
Say,  if  you  cannot  help  it,  less. 
But  what  you  do  put,  put  express. 
I  fear  that  rule  won't  meet  your  feeling : 
You  think  half  showing,  half  concealing, 
Is  God's  own  method  of  revealing. 

Di.   To  please  my  own  poor  mind !  to  find  repose ; 
To  physic  the  sick  soul ;  to  furnish  vent 
To  diseased  humours  in  the  moral  frame ! 

Sp.   A  sort  of  seton,  I  suppose, 
A  moral  bleeding  at  the  nose : 
H'm ;  —  and  the  tone  too  after  all, 
Something  of  the  ironical  ? 
Sarcastic,  say  ;  or  were  it  fitter 
To  style  it  the  religious  bitter  ? 

Di.    Interpret  it  I  cannot,  I  but  wrote  it. 

Sp.   Perhaps ;  but  none  that  read  can  doubt  it, 
There  is  a  strong  Strauss-smell  about  it. 
Heavens  !  at  your  years  your  time  to  fritter 
Upon  a  critical  hair-splitter ! 
Take  larger  views  (and  quit  your  Germans) 
From  the  Analogy  and  sermons ; 
I  fancied  —  you  must  doubtless  know  — 
J^utler  had  proved  an  age  ago. 
That  in  religious  as  profane  things 
'Twas  useless  trying  to  ex^jlain  things ; 
Men's  business-wits,  the  only  sane  things. 
These  and  compliance  are  the  main  things. 
God,  llevehition,  and  the  rest  of  it, 
Bad  at  the  best,  we  make  the  best  of  it. 
Like  a  good  subject  and  wise  man, 


DI PSYCH  us.  103 

Believe  whatever  things  you  can. 
Take  your  religion  as  'twas  found  you, 
And  say  no  more  of  it,  confound  you ! 
And  now  I  think  the  rain  has  ended ; 
And  the  less  said,  the  soonest  mended. 


Scene  II.  —  In  a  Gondola. 

Sp.   Per  ora.   To  the  Grand  Canal. 
Afterwards  e'en  as  fancy  shall. 

Di.   Afloat ;  we  move.     Delicious !     Ah, 
What  else  is  like  the  gondola  ? 
This  level  floor  of  liquid  glass 
Begins  beneath  us  swift  to  pass. 
It  goes  as  though  it  went  alone 
By  some  impulsion  of  its  own. 
(How  light  it  moves,  how  softly !     Ah, 
Were  all  things  like  the  gondola !) 

How  light  it  moves,  how  softly !     Ah, 
Could  life,  as  does  our  gondola, 
Unvexed  with  quarrels,  aims,  and  cares, 
And  moral  duties  and  affairs, 
Unswaying,  noiseless,  swift  and  strong, 
Forever  thus  —  thus  glide  along! 
(How  light  we  move,  how  softly !    Ah, 
Were  life  but  as  the  gondola !) 

With  no  more  motion  than  should  bear 
A  freshness  to  the  languid  air ; 
With  no  more  effort  than  exprest 
The  need  and  naturalness  of  rest. 
Which  we  beneath  a  grateful  shade        . 
Should  take  on  peaceful  pillows  laid ! 
(How  light  we  move,  how  softly !     Ah, 
Were  life  but  as  the  gondola !) 

In  one  unbroken  passage  borne 
To  closing  night  from  opening  morn, 
Uplift  at  whiles  slow  eyes  to  mark 
Some  palace  front,  some  passing  bark ; 


104  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Througli  windows  catch  the  varying  shore, 
And  hear  the  soft  turns  of  the  oar ! 
(How  light  we  move,  how  softly  !     Ah, 
Were  life  but  as  the  gondola !) 

So  live,  nor  need  to  call  to  raind 
Our  slaving  brother  here  behind ! 

Sp.   Pooh !    Nature  meant  him  for  no  better 
Than  our  most  humble  menial  debtor : 
Who  thanks  us  for  his  day's  employment 
As  we  our  purse  for  our  enjoyment. 

Di.   To  make  one's  fellow-man  an  instrument 


Sp.   Is  just  the  thing  that  makes  him  most  content. 

Di.   Our  gaieties,  our  luxuries, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  glee, 
Mere  insolence  and  wantonness, 
Alas  !  they  feel  to  me. 

How  shall  I  laugh  and  sing  and  dance  ? 

My  very  heart  recoils. 
While  here  to  give  my  mirth  a  chance 

A  hungry  brother  toils. 

The  joy  that  does  not  spring  from  joy 

Which  I  in  others  see. 
How  can  I  venture  to  employ. 

Or  find  it  joy  for  me  ? 

Sp.   Oh  come,  come,  come !     By  Him  that  sent  us  here, 
Who's  to  enjoy  at  all,  pray  let  us  hear  ? 
You  won't ;  he  can't !     Oh,  no  more  fuss ! 
What's  it  to  him,  or  he  to  us  ? 
Sing,  sing  away,  be  glad  and  gay. 
And  don't  forget  that  we  shall  pay. 

Di.  Yes,  it  is  beautiful  ever,  let  foolish  men  rail  at  it 

never. 
Yes,  it  is  beautiful  truly,  my  brothers,  I  grant  it  you  duly. 
Wise  are  ye  others  that  choose  it,  and  hai)py  ye  all  that 

can  use  it. 
Life  it  is  beautiful  wliolly,  and  could  we  eliminate  only 
This    interfering,    enslaving,    o'ermastering   demon    of 

craving, 


DIPSYCHUS.  105 

This  wicked  tempter  inside  us  to  ruin  still  eager  to  guide  us, 

Life  were  beatitude,  action  a  possible  pure  satisfaction. 
Sp.    (Hexameters,  by  all  that's  odious, 

Beshod  with  rhyme  to  run  melodious !) 

Di.   All  as  I  go  on  my  way  I  behold  them  consorting 
and  coupling ; 

Faithful  it  seeraeth,  and  fond;  very  fond,  very  possibly 
faithful ; 

All  as  I  go  on  my  way  with  a  pleasure  sincere  and  un- 
mingled, 

Life  it  is  beautiful  truly,  my  brothers,  I  grant  it  you  duly, 

But  for  perfection  attaining  is  one  method  only,  abstain- 
ing; 

Let  us  abstain,  for  we  should  so,  if  only  we  thought  that 
we  could  so. 

Sp.   Bravo,  bravissimo !  this  time  though 
You  rather  were  run  short  for  rhyme  though ; 
Not  that  on  that  account  your  verse 
Could  be  much  better  or  much  worse. 


i 


This  world  is  very  odd  we  see, 

We  do  not  comprehend  it; 
But  in  one  fact  we  all  agree, 

God  won't,  and  we  can't,  mend  it. 

Being  common  sense,  it  can't  be  sin  (     ,^ 

To  take  it  as  I  find  it ;  /       ■ 

The  pleasure  to  take  pleasure  in ;  > 

The  pain,  try  not  to  mind  it.  ^ 

Di.   0  let  me  love  my  love  unto  myself  alone. 
And  know  my  knowledge  to  the  world  unknown ; 
No  witness  to  the  vision  call, 
Beholding,  unbeheld  of  all ; 
And  worship  thee,  with  thee  withdrawn,  apart, 
Whoe'er,  whate'er  thou  art. 
Within  the  closest  veil  of  mine  own  inmost  heart. 

Better  it  were,  thou  sayest,  to  consent. 
Feast  while  we  may,  and  live  ere  life  be  spent ; 
Close  up  clear  eyes,  and  call  the  unstable  sure, 
The  unlovely  lovely,  and  the  filthy  pure ; 


106  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

In  self-belyings,  self-deceivings  roll, 

And  lose  in  Action,  Passion,  Talk,  the  soul. 

Nay,  better  far  to  mark  off  thus  much  air. 
And  call  it  heaven ;  place  bliss  and  glory  there ; 
Fix  perfect  homes  in  the  unsubstantial  sky. 
And  say,  what  is  not,  will  be  by  and  by ; 
What  here  exists  not  must  exist  elsewhere. 
But  play  no  tricks  upon  thy  soul,  0  man ; 
Let  fact  be  fact,  and  life  the  thing  it  can. 

Sp.   To  these  remarks  so  sage  and  clerkly, 
Worthy  of  Malebranche  or  Berkeley, 
f  j     I  trust  it  won't  be  deemed  a  sin 
If  I  too  answer  '  with  a  grin.' 

These  juicy  meats,  this  flashing  wine. 
May  be  an  unreal  mere  appearance ; 

Only  —  for  my  inside,  iii  fine. 
They  have  a  singular  coherence. 

Oh  yes,  my  pensive  youth,  abstain ; 

And  any  empty  sick  sensation. 
Remember,  anything  like  pain 

Is  only  your  imagination. 

Trust  me,  I've  read  your  German  sage 

To  far  more  purpose  e'er  than  you  did ; 
You  find  it  in  his  wisest  page, 
— --.  Whom  God  deludes  is  well  deluded. 

Di.   Where  are  the  great,  whom  thou  wouldst  wish  to 
praise  thee  ? 
Where  are  the  pure,  whom  thou  wouldst  choose  to  love 

thee? 
Where  are  the  brave,  to  stand  supreme  above  thee. 
Whose  high  commands  would  cheer,  whose  eludings  raise 
thee? 
Seek,  seeker,  in  thyself ;  submit  to  find 
In  the  stones,  bread,  and  life  in  the  blank  mind. 

(Written  in  London,  standing  in  the  Park, 
One  evening  in  July,  just  before  dark.) 


DIPSYCHUS.  107 

Sp-   As  I  sat  at  the  cafe,  I  said  to  myself, 
They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they  call  pelf, 
They  may  sneer  as  they  like  about  eating  and  drinking. 
But  help  it  I  cannot,  I  cannot  help  thinking, 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

I  sit  at  my  table  en  grand  seigneur, 
And  when  I  have  done  throw  a  crust  to  the  poor ; 
Not  only  the  pleasure,  one's  self,  of  good  living, 
But  also  the  pleasure  of  now  and  then  giving. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

It  was  but  last  winter  I  came  up  to  town, 
But  already  I'm  getting  a  little  renown ; 
I  make  new  acquaintance  where'er  I  appear ; 
I  am  not  too  shy,  and  have  nothing  to  fear. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

I  drive  through  the  streets,  and  I  care  not  a  d n ; 

The  people  they  stare,  and  they  ask  who  I  am. 
And  if  I  should  chance  to  run  over  a  cad, 
I  can  pay  for  the  damage  if  ever  so  bad. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

We  stroll  to  our  box  and  look  down  on  the  pit, 
And  if  it  weren't  low  should  be  tempted  to  spit ; 
We  loll  and  we  talk  until  people  look  up, 
And  when  it's  half  over  we  go  out  to  sup. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

The  best  of  the  tables  and  the  best  of  the  fare  — 
And  as  for  the  others,  the  devil  may  care ; 
It  isn't  our  fault  if  they  dare  not  afford 
To  sup  like  a  prince  and  be  drunk  as  a  lord. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

We  sit  at  our  tables  and  tipple  champagne ; 
Ere  one  bottle  goes,  comes  another  again  j 


108  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

The  waiters  they  skip  and  they  scuttle  about, 
And  the  landlord  attends  us  so  civilly  out. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

It  was  but  last  winter  I  came  up  to  town, 
But  already  I'm  getting  a  little  renown ; 
I  get  to  good  houses  without  much  ado, 
Am  beginning  to  see  the  nobility  too. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

O  dear !  what  a  pity  they  ever  should  lose  it ! 
For  they  are  the  gentry  that  know  how  to  use  it ; 
So  grand  and  so  graceful,  such  manners,  such  dinners. 
But  yet,  after  all,  it  is  we  are  the  winners. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

Thus  I  sat  at  my  table  en  grand  seigneur, 
And  when  I  had  done  threw  a  crust  to  the  poor ; 
Not  only  the  pleasure,  one's  self,  of  good  eating. 
But  also  the  pleasure  of  now  and  then  treating. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they  call  pelf. 

And  how  one  ought  never  to  think  of  one's  self, 

And  how  pleasures  of  thought  surpass  eating  and 

drinking  — 
My  pleasure  of  thought  is  the  pleasure  of  thinking 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

(Written  in  Venice,  but  for  all  parts  true, 
'Twas  not  a  crust  I  gave  him,  but  a  sou.) 

A  gondola  here,  and  a  gondola  there, 
'Tis  the  pleasantest  fashion  of  taking  the  air. 
To  right  and  to  left ;  stop,  turn,  and  go  yonder, 
And  let  us  repeat,  o'er  the  tide  as  we  wander. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 


DIPSYCHUS.  109 

Come,  leave  your  Gothic,  worn-out  story, 

San  Giorgio  and  the  Redentore ; 

I  from  no  building,  gay  or  solemn, 

Can  spare  the  shapely  Grecian  column. 

'Tis  not,  these  centuries  four,  for  nought 

Our  European  world  of  thought 

Hath  made  familiar  to  its  home 

The  classic  mind  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 

In  all  new  work  that  would  look  forth 

To  more  than  antiquarian  Avorth, 

Palladio's  pediments  and  bases, 

Or  something  such,  will  find  their  places : 

Maturer  optics  don't  delight 

In  childish  dim  religious  light, 

In  evanescent  vague  effects 

That  shirk,  not  face,  one's  intellects ; 

They  love  not  fancies  just  betrayed, 

And  artful  tricks  of  light  and  shade. 

But  pure  form  nakedly  displayed. 

And  all  things  absolutely  made. 

The  Doge's  palace  though  from  hence, 
In  spite  of  doctrinaire  pretence. 
The  tide  now  level  with  the  quay. 
Is  certainly  a  thing  to  see. 
We'll  turn  to  the  Eialto  soon ; 
One's  told  to  see  it  by  the  moon. 

A  gondola  here,  and  a  gondola  there, 
'Tis  the  pleasantest  fashion  of  taking  the  air. 
To  right  and  to  left ;  stop,  turn,  and  go  yonder, 
And  let  us  reflect,  o'er  the  flood  as  we  wander. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

Di.   How  light  we  go,  how  soft  we  skim. 
And  all  in  moonlight  seem  to  swim ! 
The  south  side  rises  o'er  our  bark, 
A  wall  impenetrably  dark ; 
The  north  is  seen  profusely  bright ; 
The  water,  is  it  shade  or  light  ? 
Say,  gentle  moon,  which  conquers  now 
The  flood,  those  massy  hulls,  or  thou  ? 
(How  light  Ave  go,  how  softly  !     Ah, 
Were  life  but  as  the  gondola !) 


110  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

How  light  we  go,  how  soft  we  skim, 
And  all  in  moonlight  seem  to  swim ! 
In  moonlight  is  it  now,  or  shade  ? 
In  planes  of  sure  division  made. 
By  angles  sharp  of  palace  walls 
The  clear  light  and  the  shadow  falls ; 
O  sight  of  glory,  sight  of  wonder ! 
Seen,  a  pictorial  portent,  under, 
O  great  Rialto,  the  vast  round 
Of  thy  thrice-solid  arch  profound ! 
(How  light  we  go,  how-softly  !     Ah, 
Life  should  be  as  the  gondola !) 

How  light  we  go,  how  softly 


Sp.  Nay ; 

'Fore  heaven,  enough  of  that  to-day : 
I'm  deadly  weary  of  your  tune. 
And  half-ennuye  with  the  moon ; 
The  shadows  lie,  the  glories  fall. 
And  are  but  moonshine  after  all. 
It  goes  against  my  conscience  really 
To  let  myself  feel  so  ideally. 
Come,  for  the  Piazzetta  steer; 
'Tis  nine  o'clock  or  very  near. 
These  airy  blisses,  skyey  joys 
Of  vague  romantic  girls  and  boys 
Which  melt  the  heart  and  the  brain  soften, 
When  not  affected,  as  too  often 
They  are,  remind  me,  I  protest. 
Of  nothing  better  at  the  best 
Than  Timon's  feast  to  his  ancient  lovers, 
Warm  water  under  silver  covers ; 
'  Lap,  dogs ! '  I  think  I  hear  him  say ; 
And  lap  who  will,  so  I'm  away. " 

DL   How  light  we  go,  how  soft  we  skim, 
And  all  in  moonlight  seem  to  swim ! 
Against  bright  clouds  projected  dark, 
The  white  dome  now,  reclined  I  mark, 
And,  by  o'er-brilliant  lamps  displayed, 
The  Doge's  columns  and  arcade; 
Over  still  waters  mildly  come 


DIPSYCHUS.  Ill 

The  distant  waters  and  the  hum. 
(How  light  we  go,  how  softly  !     Ah, 
Life  should  be  as  the  gondola !) 

How  light  we  go,  how  soft  we  skim, 
And  all  in  open  moonlight  swim  ! 
Ah,  gondolier,  slow,  slow,  more  slow ! 
We  go ;  but  wherefore  thus  should  go  ? 
Ah,  let  not  muscle  all  too  strong 
Beguile,  betray  thee  to  our  wrong ! 
On  to  tbe  landing,  onward.     Nay, 
Sweet  dream,  a  little  longer  stay  ! 
On  to  the  landing ;  here.     And,  ah ! 
Life  is  not  as  the  gondola. 

Sp.    Tre  ore.     So.     The  Parthenone 
Is  it  ?  you  haunt  for  your  limone. 
Let  me  induce  you  to  join  me. 
In  gramolate  persiche. 


Scene  III.  —  The  Academy  at  Venice. 

DL    A  modern  daub  it  was,  perchance, 
I  know  not :  but  the  connoisseur 
From  Titian's  hues,  I  dare  be  sure. 
Had  never  turned  one  kindly  glance. 

Where  Byron,  somewhat  drest-up,  draws 
His  sword,  impatient  long,  and  speaks 
Unto  a  tribe  of  motley  Greeks 
His  fealty  to  their  good  cause. 

Not  far,  assumed  to  mystic  bliss. 
Behold  the  ecstatic  Virgin  rise  ! 
Ah,  wherefore  vainly,  to  fond  eyes 
That  melted  into  tears  for  this  ? 

Yet  if  we  must  live,  as  would  seem. 
These  peremptory  heats  to  claim, 
Ah,  not  for  profit,  not  for  fame, 
And  not  for  pleasure's  giddy  dream. 


112  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  not  for  piping  empty  reeds, 
And  not  for  colouring  idle  dust ; 
If  live  we  positively  must, 
God's  name  be  blest  for  noble  deeds. 

"Verses !  well,  they  are  made,  so  let  them  go ; 
No  more  if  I  can  help.     This  is  one  way 
The  procreant  heat  and  fervour  of  our  youth 
Escapes,  in  puff,  in  smoke,  and  shapeless  words 
Of  mere  ejaculation,  nothing  worth. 
Unless  to  make  maturer  years  content 
To  slave  in  base  compliance  to  the  world. 

I  have  scarce  spoken  yet  to  this  strange  follower 
Whom  I  picked  up  —  ye  great  gods,  tell  me  where ! 
And  when  !  for  I  remember  such  long  years. 
And  yet  he  seems  new  come,     I  commune  with  myself : 
He  speaks,  I  hear  him,  and  resume  to  myself ; 
Whate'er  I  think,  he  adds  his  comments  to; 
Which  yet  not  interrupts  me.     Scarce  I  know 
If  ever  once  directly  1  addressed  him : 
Let  me  essay  it  now ;  for  I  have  strength. 
Yet  what  he  wants,  and  what  he  fain  would  have, 
Oh,  I  know  all  too  surely ;  not  in  vain, 
Although  unnoticed,  has  he  dogged  my  ear. 
Come,  we'll  be  definite,  explicit,  plain ; 
I  can  resist,  I  know ;  and  'twill  be  well 
For  colloquy  to  have  used  this  manlier  mood, 
Which  is  to  last,  ye  chances  say  how  long ! 
How  shall  I  call  him  ?    Mephistopheles  ? 
Sp.   I  come,  I  come. 

Di.  So  quick,  so  eager  ;  ha ! 

Like  an  eaves-dropping  menial  on  my  thought. 
With  something  of  an  exultation  too,  methinks, 
Out-])eeping  in  that  springy,  jaunty  gait. 
I  doubt  about  it.     Shall  I  do  'it  ?     Oh  !  oh  ! 
Shame  on  me  !  come !     Shall  I,  my  follower, 
Should  I  conceive  (not  that  at  all  I  do, 
'Tis  curiosity  that  prompts  my  speech)  — 

/But  should  I  form,  a  thing  to  be  supposed, 

'  A  wish  to  bargain  for  your  merchandise, 
Say  what  were  your  demands  ?  what  were  your  terms  ? 
What  should  I  do '/  what  should  I  cease  to  do  ? 


DIPSYCHUS.  113 


I 


What  incense  on  what  altars  must  I  burn  ? 
And  what  abandon  ?  what  unlearn,  or  learn  ? 
Keligion  goes,  I  take  it. 

S2).  Oh, 

You'll  go  to  church  of  course,  you  know ; 
Or  at  the  least  will  take  a  pew 
To  send  your  Avife  and  servants  to. 
Trust  me,  I  make  a  point  of  that ; 
No  infidelity,  that's  flat. 

DL   Religion  is  not  in  a  pew,  say  some ; 
Cucullus,  you  hold,  facit  monachum. — 

Sj)-   Why,  as  to  feelings  of  devotion 
I  interdict  all  vague  emotion ; 
But  if  you  will,  for  once  and  all 
Compound  with  ancient  Juvenal 
Orandum  est,  one  perfect  prayer 
For  savoir-vivre  and  savoir-faire.  Kx'v--v_-^^^ — - — 

Theology  —  don't  recommend  you. 
Unless,  turned  lawyer,  Heaven  should  send  you 
In  your  profession's  way  a  case 
Of  Baptism  and  prevenient  grace ; 
But  that's  not  likely.     I'm  inclined. 
All  circumstances  borne  in  mind, 
To  think  (to  keep  you  in  due  borders) 
You'd  better  enter  holy  orders. 

Di.   On  that,  my  friend,  you'd  better  not  insist. 

Sp.    Well,  well,  'tis  but  a  good  thing  missed. 
The  item's  optional,  no  doubt ; 
But  how  to  get  you  bread  without  ? 
You'll  marry ;  I  shall  find  the  lady. 
Make  your  proposal,  and  be  steady. 

Di.   Marry,  ill  spirit !  and  at  your  sole  choice  ? 

Sp.   De  rigueur !  can't  give  you  a  voice. 
What  matter  ?     Oh,  trust  one  who  knows  you. 
You'll  make  an  admirable  sposo. 

Di.   Enough.     But  action  —  look  to  that  well,  mind 
me; 
See  that  some  not  unworthy  work  you  find  me ; 
If  man  I  be,  then  give  the  man  expression. 

8j).   Of  course  you'll  enter  a  profession ;  , 

If  not  the  Church,  why  then  the  Law. 
By  Jove,  we'll  teach  you  how  to  draw ! 
Besides,  the  best  of  the  concern  is 


114  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

I'm  hand  and  glove  with  the  attorneys. 
With  them  and  me  to  help,  don't  doubt 
But  in  due  season  you'll  come  out ; 
•  Leave  Kelly,  Cockburn,  in  the  lurch. 
But  yet,  do  think  about  the  Church. 

Di.   'Tis  well,  ill  spirit,  I  admire  your  wit; 
As  for  your  wisdom,  I  shall  think  of  it. 
And  now  farewell. 


Scene  IV.  —  In  St.  Mai-Ws.     Dipsychus  alone. 

The  Law!  'twere  honester,  if  'twere  genteel, 

To  say  the  dung-cart.     What !  shall  I  go  about, 

And  like  the  walking  shoeblack  roam  the  flags 

To  see  whose  boots  are  dirtiest  ?     Oh,  the  luck 

To  stoop  and  clean  a  pair ! 

Religion,  if  indeed  it  be  in  vain 

To  expect  to  find  in  this  more  modern  time 

That  which  the  old  world  styled,  in  old-world  phrase, 

Walking  with  God.     It  seems  His  newer  will 

We  should  not  think  of  Him  at  all,  but  trudge  it, 

And  of  the  world  He  has  assigned  us  make 

What  best  we  can. 

Then  love :  I  scarce  can  think 
That  these  bemaddening  discords  of  the  mind 
To  pure  melodious  sequence  could  be  changed, 
And  all  the  vext  conundrums  of  our  life 
Solved  to  all  time  by  this  old  pastoral 
Of  a  new  Adam  and  a  second  Eve 
Set  in  a  garden  which  no  serpent  seeks. 

And  yet  I  hold  heart  can  beat  true  to  heart : 
And  to  hew  down  the  tree  which  bears  this  fruit, 
To  do  a  thing  which  cuts  me  off  from  hope. 
To  falsify  the  movement  of  Love's  mind, 

'To  seat  some  alien  trifler  on  the  throne 
A  queen  may  come  to  claim —  that  were  ill  done. 
What !  to  the  close  hand  of  the  clutcliing  ,]ew 
Hand  up  that  rich  reversion  !  and  for  what  ? 
This  would  be  hard,  did  I  indeed  l)elieve 

I  'T would  ever  fall.     Tliat  love,  the  large  repose 

I  Kestorative,  not  to  mere  outside  needs 

I  Skin-deep,  but  throughly  to  the  total  man, 


DIPSYCHUS.  115 


/ 


Exists,  I  will  believe,  but  so,  so  rare, 

So  doubtful,  so  exceptional,  hard  to  guess ; 

When  guessed,  so  often  counterfeit ;  in  brief, 

A  thing  not  possibly  to  be  conceived 

An  item  in  the  reckonings  of  the  wise. 

Action,  that  staggers  me.     For  I  had  hoped,  6^hS^ 

'Midst  weakness,  indolence,  frivolity,  — -^.^^^ 

Irresolution,  still  had  hoped :  and  this 

Seems  sacrificing  hope.     Better  to  wait : 

The  wise  men  wait ;  it  is  the  foolish  haste, 

And  ere  the  scenes  are  in  the  slides  would  play, 

And  while  the  instruments  are  tuning,  dance. 
I  see  Napoleon  on  the  heights  intent 

To  arrest  that  one  brief  unit  of  loose  time 

Which  hands  high  Victory's  thread ;  his  marshals  fret, 

His  soldiers  clamour  low :  the  very  guns 

Seem  going  off  of  themselves ;  the  cannon  strain 

Like  hell-dogs  in  the  leash.     But  he,  he  waits ;        •  /, 

jfAnd  lesser  chances  and  inferior  hopes  Va 

I  Meantime  go  pouring  past.     Men  gnash  their  teeth ;  'P 

TEe~very  faithful  have  begun  to  doubt ; 

But  they  molest  not  the  calm  eye  that  seeks 

'Midst  all  this  huddling  silver  little  worth 

The  one  thin  piece  that  comes,  pure  gold ;  he  waits. 

O  me,  when  the  great  deed  e'en  now  has  broke 

Like  a  man's  hand  the  horizon's  level  line. 

So  soon  to  fill  the  zenith  with  rich  clouds ; 

Oh,  in  this  narrow  interspace,  this  marge. 

This  list  and  selvage  of  a  glorious  time, 

To  despair  of  the  gi-eat  and  sell  unto  the  mean ! 

O  thou  of  little  faith,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Yet  if  the  occasion  coming  should  find  -us 

Undexterous,  incapable  ?     In  light  things 

Prove  thou  the  arms  thou  long'st  to  glorify, 

Nor  fear  to  work  up  from  the  lowest  ranks 

Whence  come  great  Nature's  Captains.      And  high  deeds  \ 
^Haunt  not  the  fringy  edges  of  the  fight,^ 

\But  the  pell-mell  of  men.\  Oh,  what  and  if  ^ 

E'en  now  by  lingering  here  I  let  them  slip, 

Like  an  unpractised  spyer  through  a  glass,    ^ 

Still  pointing  to  the  blank,  too  high !     And  yet. 

In  dead  details  to  smother  vital  ends 


116  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Which  -woukl  give  life  to  them  ;  in  the  deft  trick 

Of' prentice-handling  to  forget  great  art, 

To  base  mechanical  adroitness  yield 

The  Inspiration  and  the  Hope  a  slave ! 

Oh,  and  to  blast  that  Innocence  which,  though 

Here  it  may  seem  a  dull  unopening  bud, 

May  yet  bloom  freely  in  celestial  clime ! 

Were  it  not  better  done,  then,  to  keep  off 

And  see,  not  share,  the  strife ;  stand  out  the  waltz 

Which  fools  whirl  dizzy  in  ?     Is  it  possible  ? 

Contamination  taints  the  idler  first ; 

And  without  base  compliance,  e'en  that  same 

Which  buys  bold  hearts  free  course,  Earth  lends  not  these 

Their  pent  and  miserable  standing-room. 

Life  loves  no  lookers-on  at  his  great  game. 

And  with  boy's  malice  still  delights  to  turn 

The  tide  of  sport  upon  the  sitters-by, 

And  set  observers  scampering  with  their  notes. 

Oh,  it  is  great  to  do  and  know  not  what, 

Nor  let  it  e'er  be  known.     The  dashing  stream 

Stays  not  to  pick  his  steps  among  the  rocks, 

Or  let  his  water-breaks  be  chronicled. 

And  though  the  hunter  looks  before  he  leap, 

'Tis  instinct  rather  than  a  shaped-out  thought 

That  lifts  him  his  bold  way.     Then,  instinct,  hail ! 

And  farewell  hesitation.     If  I  stay, 

I  am  not  innocent ;  nor  if  I  go  — 

E'en  should  I  fall  —  beyond  redemption  lost. 

Ah,  if  I  had  a  course  like  a  full  stream. 
If  life  were  as  the  field  of  chase !     No,  no ; 
Tlie  life  of  instinct  has,  it  seems,  gone  by. 
And  will  not  be  forced  back.     And  to  live  now 
I  must  sluice  out  myself  into  canals, 
And  lose  all  force  in  ducts.     The  modern  Hotspur 
Shrills  not  his  trumpet  of  *  To  Horse,  To  Horse ! ' 
But  consults  columns  in  a  Railway  Guide ; 
A  demigod  of  figures ;  an  Achilles 
Of  computation ; 

A  verier  Mercury,  express  come  down 
To  do  the  world  with  swift  arithmetic. 
Well,  one  could  bear  with  that,  were  the  end  ours, 
One's  choice  and  the  correlative  of  tlie  soul ; 
To  drudge  were  then  sweet  service.     But  indeed 


The  earth  moves  slowly,  if  it  move  at  all,    ^^^^^jlIm^^^ 

And  by  the  general,  not  the  single  force  Ia*''^^ 

Of  the  linked  members  of  the  vast  machine. 

In  all  these  crowded  rooms  of  industry, 

No  individual  soul  has  loftier  leave 

Than  fiddling  with  a  piston  or  a  valve. 

Well,  one  could  bear  that  also :  one  would  drudge 

And  do  one's  petty  part,  and  be  content 

In  base  manipulation,  solaced  still 

By  thinking  of  the  leagued  fraternity. 

And  of  cooperation,  and  the  effect 

Of  the  great  engine.     If  indeed  it  work. 

And  is  not  a  mere  treadmill !  which  it  may  be. 

Who  can  confirm  it  is  not  ?     We  ask  action, 

And  dream  of  arms  and  conflict ;  and  string  up 

All  self-<levotion's  muscles ;  and  are  set 

To  fold  up  papers.     To  what  end  ?  we  know  not. 

Other  folks  do  so ;  it  is  always  done ; 

And  it  perhaps  is  right.     And  we  are  paid  for  it, 

Eor  nothing  else  we  can  be.     He  that  eats 

i\iust  serve ;  and  serve  as  other  servants  do : 

And  don  the  lacquey's  liveiy  of  the  house. 

Oh,  could  I  shoot  my  thought  up  to  the  sky, 

A  column  of  pure  shape,  for  all  to  observe ! 

But  I  must  slave,  a  meagre  coral-worm. 

To  build  beneath  the  tide  with  excrement 

What  one  day  will  be  island,  or  be  reef, 

And  will  feed  men,  or  wreck  them.     Well,  well,  well. 

Adieu,  ye  twisted  thinkings.     I  submit :  it  must  be. 

Action  is  what  one  must  get,  it  is  clear, 
And  one  could  dream  it  better  than  one  finds. 
In  its  kind  personal,  in  its  motive  not ; 
Not  selfish  as  it  now  is,  nor  as  now 
Maiming  the  individual.     If  we  had  that. 
It  would  cure  all  indeed.     Oh,  how  would  then 
These  pitiful  rebellions  of  the  flesh. 
These  caterwaulings  of  the  effeminate  heart, 
These  hurts  of  self-imagined  dignity, 
Pass  like  the  seaweed  from  about  the  bows 
Of  a  great  vessel  speeding  straight  to  sea ! 
Yes,  if  we  could  have  that ;  but  I  suppose 
We  shall  not  have  it,  and  therefore  I  submit ! 


118  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Sp.  {from  witliin).    Submit,  submit ! 
'Tis  common  sense,  and  human  wit 
Can  claim  no  higher  name  than  it. 
Submit,  submit! 
Devotion,  and  ideas,  and  love, 
And  beauty  claim  their  place  above ; 
But  saint  and  sage  and  poet's  dreams 
Divide  the  light  in  coloured  streams. 
Which  this  alone  gives  all  combined, 
The  siccum  lumen  of  the  mind 
Called  common  sense :  and  no  high  wit 
Gives  better  counsel  than  does  it. 
Submit,  submit ! 

To  see  things  simply  as  they  are 

Here  at  our  elbows,  transcends  far 

Trying  to  spy  out  at  midday 

Some  '  bright  particular  star,'  which  may, 

Or  not,  be  visible  at  night. 

But  clearly  is  not  in  daylight ; 

No  inspiration  vague  outweighs 

The  plain  good  common  sense  that  says, 

Submit,  submit ! 

'Tis  common  sense,  and  human  wit 

Can  ask  no  higher  name  than  it. 

Submit,  submit! 


Scene  V.  —  77ie  Piazza  at  Night. 

Di.   There  have  been  times,  not  many,  but  enough 
To  quiet  all  repinings  of  the  heart ; 
There  have  been  times,  in  which  my  tranquil  soul, 
No  longer  nebulous,  sparse,  errant,  seemed 
Upon  its  axis  solidly  to  move. 
Centred  and  fast :  no  mere  elastic  blank 
For  random  rays  to  traverse  unretained, 
liut  rounding  luminous  its  fair  ellipse 
Around  its  central  sun.     Ay,  yet  again. 
As  in  more  faint  sensations  I  detect, 
With  it  too,  round  an  Inner,  Mightier  orb, 
Maybe  with  that  too  —  this  I  dare  not  sa}?  — 
Around,  yet  more,  more  central,  more  supreme. 


DIPSYCHUS.  119 

Whate'er  how  nximerous  soe'er  they  be, 
I  am  and  feel  myself,  where'er  I  Avind, 
What  vagrant  chance  soe'er  I  seem  to  obey 
Communicably  theirs. 

0  happy  hours ! 
O  compensation  ample  for  long  days 
Of  what  impatient  tongues  call  wretchedness ! 
0  beautiful,  beneath  the  magic  moon. 
To  walk  the  watery  way  of  palaces ! 
O  beautiful,  o'ervaulted  with  gemmed  blue, 
This  spacious  court,  with  colour  and  with  gold, 
With  cupolas,  and  pinnacles,  and  points. 
And  crosses  multiplex,  and  tips  and  balls 
(Wherewith  the  bright  stars  unreproving  mix, 
Nor  gcorn  by  hasty  eyes  to  be  confused)  ; 
Fantastically  perfect  this  low  pile 
Of  Oriental  glory ;  these  long  ranges 
Of  classic  chiselling,  this  gay  flickering  crowd, 
And  the  calm  Campanile.     Beautiful ! 
O  beautiful !  and  that  seemed  more  profound, 
This  morning  by  the  pillar  when  I  sat 
Under  the  great  arcade,  at  the  review, 
And  took,  and  held,  and  ordered  on  my  brain 
The  faces,  and  the  voices,  and  the  whole  mass 
0'  the  motley  facts  of  existence  flowing  by ! 

0  perfect,  if  'twere  all !     But  it  is  not ; 
Hints  haunt  me  ever  of  a  more  beyond : 

1  am  rebuked  by  a  sense  of  the  incomplete, 
Of  a  completion  over  soon  assumed, 

Of  adding  up  too  soon.     Wliat  we  call  sin,  i 

I  could  believe  a  painful  opening  out  |i 

Of  paths  for  ampler  virtue.     The  bare  field, 
Scant  with  lean  ears  of  harvest,  long  had  mocked 
The  vext  laborious  farmer;  came  at  length 
The  deep  plough  in  the  lazy  undersoil 
Down-driving ;  with  a  cry  earth's  fibres  crack, 
And  a  few  months,  and  lo !  the  golden  leas, 
And  autumn's  crowded  shocks  and  loaded  wains. 
Let  us  look  back  on  life ;  was  any  change. 
Any  now  blest  expansion,  but  at  first 
A  pang,  remorselike,  shot  to  the  inmost  seats 
Of  moral  being  ?     To  do  anything. 
Distinct  on  any  one  thing  to  decide. 


120  CLOUGirs  POEMS. 

To  leave  the  habitual  and  the  old,  and  quit     1 

The  easy-chair  of  use  and  wont,  seems  crime  \ 

To  the  weak  soul,  forgetful  how  at  first  | 

Sitting  down  seemed  so  too.     And,  oh !   this  woman's 

heart. 
Fain  to  be  forced,  incredulous  of  choice, 
And  waiting  a  necessity  for  God. 

Yet  I  could  think,  indeed,  the  perfect  call 
Should  force  the  perfect  answer.     If  the  voice 
Ought  to  receive  its  echo  from  the  soul, 
Wherefore  this  silence  ?     If  it  should  rouse  my  being, 
Why  this  reluctance  ?     Have  I  not  thought  o'ermuch 
Of  other  men,  and  of  the  ways  of  the  world  ? 
But  what  they  are,  or  have  been,  matters  not. 
To  thine  own  self  be  true,  the  wise  man  says. 
Are  then  my  fears  myself  ?     0  double  self  ! 
And  I  untrue  to  both  ?     Oh,  there  are  hours,   ( 
When  love,  and  faith,  and  dear  domestic  ties,   ( 
And  converse  with  old  friends,  and  pleasant  walks, 
Familiar  faces,  and  familiar  books,  \ 

Study,  and  art,  upliftings  unto  prayer,  \ 
And  admiration  of  the  noblest  things,  \ 
Seem  all  ignoble  only  ;  all  is  mean,  ^ 

And  nought  as  I  woiild  have  it.     Then  at  others, 
My  mind  is  in  her  rest ;  my  heart  at  home 
In  all  around  ;  my  soul  secure  in  place, 
And  the  vext  needle  perfect  to  her  poles. 
Aimless  and  hopeless  in  my  life  I  seem 
To  thread  the  winding  byways  of  the  town, 
Bewildered,  baffled,  hurried  hence  and  thence, 
All  at  cross-purpose  even  with  myself. 
Unknowing  whence  or  whither.     Thence,  at  once, 
A^  a  step,  I  crown  the  Campanile's  top,  i 

And  view  all  mapped  below ;  islands,  lagoon, 
A  hundred  steeples  and  a  million  roofs. 
The  fruitful  champaign,  and  the  cloud-capt  Alps, 
And  the  broad  Adriatic.     Be  it  enough ; 
If  I  lose  this,  how  terrible!     No,  no, 
I  am  contented,  and  will  not  com])lain. 
To  the  old  i)aths,  my  soul !     Oli,  l)e  it  so  ! 
I  bear  the  workday  burden  of  dull  life  ' 

About  these  footsore  flags  of  a  weary  world. 
Heaven  knows  how  long  it  has  not  been ;  at  once, 


DIPSYCHUS.  121 

Lo !  I  am  in  the  spirit  on  the  Lord's  day       I 
With  John  in  Patmos.     Is  it  not  enough,         . 
One  day  in  seven  ?  and  if  this  should  go,         I 
If  this  pure  solace  should  desert  my  mind, 
What  were  all  else  ?     I  dare  not  risk  this  loss. 
To  the  old  paths,  my  soul ! 

Six  O  yes. 

To  moon  about  religion ;  to  inhume 
Your  ripened  age  in  solitary  walks. 
For  self-discussion  ;  to  debate  in  letters 
Vext  points  with  earnest  friends  ;  past  other  men 
To  cherish  natural  instincts,  yet  to  fear  them 
And  less  than  any  use  them  ;  oh,  no  doubt, 
In  a  corner  sit  and  mope,  and  be  consoled 
With  thinking  one  is  clever,  while  the  room 
Rings  through  Avith  animation  and  the  dance. 
Then  talk  of  old  examples  ;  to  pervert 
Ancient  real  facts  to  modern  unreal  dreams. 
And  build  up  baseless  fabrics  of  romance 
And  heroism  upon  historic  sand  ; 
To  burn,  forsooth,  for  action,  yet  despise 
Its  merest  accidence  and  alphabet ; 
Cry  out  for  service,  and  at  once  rebel 
At  the  application  of  its  plainest  rules : 
This  you  call  life,  my  friend,  reality ; 
Doing  your  duty  unto  God  and  man  — 
I  know  not  what.     Stay  at  Venice,  if  you  will ; 
Sit  musing  in  its  churches  hour  on  hour 
Cross-kneed  upon  a  bench ;  climb  up  at  Avhiles 
The  neighbouring  tower,  and  kill  the  lingering  day 
With  old  comparisons  ;  when  night  succeeds. 
Evading,  yet  a  little  seeking,  what 
You  would  and  would  not,  turn  your  doubtful  eyes 
On  moon  and  stars  to  help  morality ; 
Once  in  a  fortnight  say,  by  lucky  chance 
Of  happier-tempered  coffee,  gain  (great  Heaven  !) 
A  pious  rapture  :  is  it  not  enough  ? 

Di.   'Tis  Avell :  thou  cursed  spirit,  go  thy  way  ! 
I  am  in  higher  hands  than  yours.     'Tis  well ; 
Who  taught  you  menaces  ?     Who  told  you,  pray, 
Because  I  asked  you  questions,  and  made  show 
Of  hearing  what  you  answered,  therefore 

Sp.  Oh, 


122  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

As  if  I  didn't  know ! 

Di.  Come,  come,  my  friend, 

I  may  have  wavered,  but  I  have  thought  better. 
We'll  say  no  more  of  it. 

Sp.  Oh,  I  dare  say : 

But  as  you  like ;  'tis  your  own  loss  ;  once  more. 
Beware ! 

Di.  (alone).  Must  it  be  then  ?   So  quick  upon  my  thought 
To  follow  the  fulfilment  and  the  deed  ? 
\I  counted  not  on  this;  I  counted  ever 
To  hold  and  turn  it  over  in  my  hands 
Much  longer,  much :  I  took  it  up  indeed. 
For  speculation  rather;  to  gain  thought, 
I  New  data.     Oh,  and  now  to  be  goaded  on 
By  menaces,  entangled  amOng  tricks ; 
That  I  won't  suffer.     Yet  it  is  the  law ; 
'Tis  this  makes  action  always.     But  for  this 
We  ne'er  should  act  at  all ;  and  act  we  must. 
Why  quarrel  with  the  fashion  of  a  fact 
Which,  one  way,  must  be,  one  time,  —  why  not  now  ? 

Sp.   Submit,  submit ! 
For  tell  me  then,  in  earth's  great  laws 
Have  you  found  any  saving  clause. 
Exemption  special  granted  you 
'  From  doing  what  the  rest  must  do  ? 
Of  common  sense  who  made  yoti  quit, 
And  told  you,  you'd  no  need  of  it, 
Nor  to  submit  ? 

To  move  on  angels'  wings  were  sweet; 
But  who  would  therefore  scorn  his  feet  ? 
It  cannot  walk  up  to  the  sky ; 
It  therefore  will  lie  down  and  di(\ 
Rich  meats  it  don't  obtain  at  call ; 
It  therefore  will  not  eat  at  all. 
Poor  babe,  and  yet  a  babe  of  wit ! 
But  common  sense,  not  much  of  it, 
Or  'twould  submit. 
Submit,  submit! 

As  your  good  father  did  before  you, 
And  as  the  mother  who  first  bore  you. 


DIPSYCHUS.  123 

O  yes !  a  child  of  heavenly  birth ! 
But  yet  it  was  born  too  on  earth. 
Keep  your  new  birth  for  that  far  day 
When  in  the  grave  your  bones  you  lay, 
All  with  your  kindred  and  connection, 
In  hopes  of  happy  resurrection. 
But  how  meantime  to  live  is  fit, 
Ask  common  sense ;  and  what  says  it  ? 
Submit,  submit ! 


Scene  VI.  —  On  a  Bridge. 

Di.   'Tis  gone,  the  fierce  inordinate  desire, 
The  burning  thirst  for  action  —  utterly  ; 
Gone,  like  a  ship  that  passes  in  the  night 
On  the  high  seas :  gone,  yet  will  come  again : 
Gone,  yet  expresses  something  that  exists. 
Is  it  a  thing  ordained,  then  ?  is  it  a  clue 
For  my  life's  conduct  ?  is  it  a  law  for  me 
That  opportunity  shall  breed  distrust, 
Not  passing  until  that  pass  ?     Chance  and  resolve. 
Like  two  loose  comets  wandering  wide  in  space. 
Crossing  each  other's  orbits  time  on  time. 
Meet  never.     Void  indifference  and  doubt 
Let  through  the  present  boon,  Avhich  ne'er  turns  back 
To  await  the  after  sure-arriving  wish. 
How  shall  I  then  explain  it  to  myself, 
That  in  blank  thought  my  purpose  lives  ? 
The  uncharged  cannon  mocking  still  the  spark 
Wlien  come,  which  ere  come  it  had  loudly  claimed. 
Am  I  to  let  it  be  so  still  ?     For  truly 
The  need  exists,  I  know;  the  wish  but  sleeps 
(Sleeps,  and  anon  will  Avake  and  cry  for  food) ; 
And  to  put  by  these  unreturning  gifts. 
Because  the  feeling  is  not  with  me  now. 
Seems  folly  more  than  merest  babyhood's. 
But  must  I  then  do  violence  to  myself, 
And  push  on  nature,  force  desire  (that's  ill). 
Because  of  knowledge  ?  which  is  great,  but  works 
By  rules  of  large  exception ;  to  tell  which 
bought  is  more  fallible  than  mere  caprice. 


124  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

What  need  for  action  yet  ?     I  am  liappy  now, 
I  feel  no  lack —  Avliat  cause  is  there  for  haste  ? 
Am  I  not  happy  ?  is  not  that  enough  ? 
Depart ! 

Sj).    0  yes  !  you  thought  you  had  escaped,  no  doubt, 
This  worldly  fiend  that  follows  you  about, 
This  compound  of  convention  and  impiety. 
This  mongrel  of  uncleanness  and  proj^riety. 
What  else  were  bad  enough  ?  but,  let  me  say, 
I  too  have  my  grandes  mani^res  in  my  way ; 
Could  speak  high  sentiment  as  well  as  you, 
And  out-blank- verse  you  without  much  ado ; 
Have  my  religion  also  in  my  kind. 
For  dreaming  unfit,  because  not  designed. 
What !  you  know  not  that  I  too  can  be  serious, 
Can  speak  big  words,  and  use  the  tone  imperious ; 
Can  speak,  not  honeyedly,  of  love  and  beauty, 
But  sternly  of  a  something  much  like  duty. 
Oh,  do  you  look  surprised  ?  were  never  told, 
Perhaps,  that  all  that  glitters  is  not  gold. 
The  Devil  oft  the  Holy  Scripture  uses, 
\But  God  can  act  the  Devil  when  He  chooses.  \ 
Farewell !     But,  verbnm  sapienU  satis  — 
I  do  not  make  this  revelation  gratis. 
Farewell :  beware ! 

DL   111  spirits  can  quote  holy  books  I  knew ; 
What  will  they  not  say  ?  what  not  dare  to  do  ? 

Sp.   Beware,  beware ! 

Di.   What,  loitering  still  ?     Still,  0  foul  spirit,  there  ? 
Go  hence,  I  tell  thee,  go !     I  will  beware. 
(Alone.)   It  must  be,  then.     I  feel  it  in  my  soul ; 
The  iron  enters,  sundering  flesh  and  bone, 
And  sharper  than  the  two-edged  sword  of  God. 
I  come  into  deep  Avaters  —  help,  0  help! 
Tlie  floods  run  over  me. 

Therefore,  farewell !  a  long  and  last  farewell, 
Ye  pious  sweet  simplicities  of  life, 
Good  books,  good  friends,  and  holy  moods,  and  all 
That  lent  rougli  life  sweet  Sunday-seeming  rests, 
Making  earth  heaven-like.     Welcome,  wicked  world, 
Tlie  liardening  lieart,  tlie  calculating  l)rain 
Narrowing  its  doors  to  thought,  the  lying  li])s, 
The  calm-dissembling  eyes  ;  the  greedy  flesh, 
The  world,  the  Devil  —  welcome,  welcome,  welcome  1 


DI PSYCH  us.  125 

Sp.  {from  within).   This  stern  necessity  of  things 
On  every  side  our  being  rings  ; 
Our  sallying  eager  actions  fall 
Vainly  against  that  iron  wall. 
Where  once  her  finger  points  the  way, 
The  wise  thinks  only  to  obey ; 
Take  life  as  she  has  ordered  it, 
And  come  what  rnay  of  it,  submit, 
Submit,  submit ! 

Who  take  implicitly  her  will. 
For  these  her  vassal  chances  still 
Bring  stores  of  joys,  successes,  pleasures; 
But  whoso  ponders,  weighs,  and  measures, 
She  calls  her  torturers  up  to  goad 
With  spur  and  scourges  on  the  road ; 
He  does  at  last  with  pain  whate'er 
He  spurned  at  first.     Of  such,  beware, 
Beware,  beware ! 

Di.   0  God,  0  God !     The  great  floods  of  the  soul 
Flow  over  me !     I  come  into  deep  waters 
Where  no  ground  is  ! 

Sp.   Don't  be  the  least  afraid ; 
There's  not  the  slightest  reason  for  alarm ; 
I  only  meant  by  a  perhaps  rough  shake 
To  rouse  you  from  a  dreamy,  unhealthy  sleep. 
Up,  then  —  up,  and  be  going  :  the  large  world, 
The  thronged  life  waits  us. 

Come,  my  pretty  boy, 
You  have  been  making  mows  to  the  blank  sky 
Quite  long  enough  for  good.     We'll  put  you  up 
Into  the  higher  form.     'Tis  time  you  learn 
The  Second  Reverence,  for  things  around. 
Up,  then,  and  go  amongst  them ;  don't  be  timid ; 
Look  at  them  quietly  a  bit :  by  and  by 
Respect  will  come,  and  healthy  appetite. 
So  let  us  go. 

How  now !  not  yet  awake  ? 
Oh,  you  will  sleep  yet,  will  you !     Oh,  you  shirk. 
You  try  and  slink  away  !     You  cannot,  eh  ? 
Nay  now,  what  folly's  this  ?    Why  will  you  fool  yourself  ? 
Why  will  you  walk  about  thus  with  your  eyes  shut  ? 


126  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Treating  for  facts  the  self-made  hues  that  flash 

On  tight-pressed  pupils,  Avhich  you  know  are  not  facts. 

To  use  the  undistorted  light  of  the  sun 

Is  not  a  crime  ;  to  look  straight  out  upon 

The  big  plain  things  that  stare  one  in  the  face 

Does  not  contaminate ;  to  see  pollutes  not 

What  one  must  feel  if  one  won't  see,  what  is, 

And  will  be  too,  howe'er  we  blink,  and  must 

One  way  or  other  make  itself  observed. 

Free  walking's  better  than  being  led  about ;  and 

What  will  the  blind  man  do,  I  wonder,  if 

Some  one  should  cut  the  string  of  his  dog  ?     Just  think ! 

What  could  you  do,  if  I  should  go  away  ? 

Oh,  you  have  paths  of  your  own  before  you,  have  you  ? 
What  shall  it  take  to  ?  literature,"  no  doubt  ? 
Novels,  reviews  ?  or  poems  !  if  j'^ou  please  ! 
The  strong  fresh  gale  of  life  will  feel,  no  doubt, 
The  influx  of  your  mouthful  of  soft  air. 
Well,  make  the  most  of  that  small  stock  of  knowledge 
You've  condescended  to  receive  from  me ; 
That's  your  best  chance.     Oh,  you  despise  that !     Oh. 
Prate  then  of  passions  you  have  known  in  dreams, 
Of  huge  experience  gathered  by  the  eye ; 
Be  large  of  aspiration,  pure  in  hope, 
Sweet  in  fond  longings,  but  in  all  things  vague ; 
Breathe  out  your  dreamy  scepticism,  relieved 
By  snatches  of  old  songs.    People  will  like  that,  doubtless. 
Or  will  you  Avrite  about  philosophy  ? 
For  a  waste  far-off  maj/be  overlooking 
The  fruitful  is  close  by,  live  in  metaphysic, 
With  transcendental  logic  fill  your  stomach, 
Schematise  joy,  effigiate  meat  and  drink ; 
Or,  let  me  see,  a  mighty  work,  a  volume, 
The  Complemental  of  the  inferior  Kant, 
The  Critic  of  Pure  Practice,  based  upon 
The  Antinomies  of  the  Moral  Sense :  for,  look  you, 
We  cannot  act  without  assuming  x, 
And  at  the  same  time  y,  its  contradictory ; 
Ergo,  to  act.     People  will  buy  that,  doubtless. 
Or  you'll  perhaps  teach  youth  (I  do  not  question 
Some  downward  turn  you  may  find,  some  evasion 
Of  the  broad  highway's  glaring  white  ascent)  ; 
Teach  youth,  in  a  small  way,  that  is,  always, 


DIPSYCHUS.  127 

So  as  to  have  much  time  left  you  for  yourself; 

This  you  can't  sacrifice,  your  leisure's  precious. 

Heartily  you  will  not  take  to  anything ; 

Whatever  happen,  don't  I  see  you  still, 

Living  no  life  at  all  ?     Even  as  now 

An  o'ergrown  baby,  sucking  at  the  dugs 

Of  instinct,  dry  long  since.      Come,  come,  you  are  old 

enough 
For  spoon-meat  surely. 

Will  you  go  on  thus 
Until  death  end  you  ?  if  indeed  it  does. 
For  what  it  does,  none  knows.     Yet  as  for  you. 
You'll  hardly  have  the  courage  to  die  outright ; 
You'll  somehow  halve  even  it.     Methinks  I  see  you, 
Through  everlasting  limbos  of  void  time, 
Twirling  and  twiddling  ineffectively, 
And  indeterminately  swaying  forever. 
Come,  come,  spoon-meat  at  any  rate. 

Well,  well, 
I  will  not  persecute  you  more,  my  friend. 
Only  do  think,  as  I  observed  before. 
What  can  you  do,  if  I  should  go  away  ? 

Di.   Is  the  hour  here,  then  ?     Is  the  minute  come  — 
The  irreprievable  instant  of  stern  time  ? 
O  for  a  few,  few  grains  in  the  running  glass, 
Or  for  some  power  to  hold  them  !     0  for  a  few 
Of  all  that  went  so  wastef ully  before ! 
It  must  be  then,  e'en  now. 

8p.   {from  within).   It  must,  it  must. 
'Tis  common  sense !  and  human  Avit 
Can  claim  no  higher  name  than  it. 
Submit,  submit ! 

Necessity !  and  who  shall  dare 

Bring  to  her  feet  excuse  or  prayer  ? 

Beware,  beware  ! 

We  must,  we  must. 

Howe'er  we  turn,  and  pause  and  tremble  — 

Howe'er  we  shrink,  deceive,  dissemble  — 

Whate'er  our  doubting,  grief,  disgust, 

The  hand  is  on  us,  and  we  must, 

We  must,  we  must. 


128  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

'Tis  common  sense  !  and  human  wit 
Can  find  no  better  name  than  it. 
Submit,  submit ! 


Scene  VII.  — At  TorceUo.     Dipsychus  alone. 

Di.    I  had  a  vision  ;  was  it  in  my  sleep  ? 
And  if  it  were,  what  then  ?     But  sleep  or  wake, 
I  saw  a  great  light  open  o'er  my  head ; 
And  sleep  or  wake,  uplifted  to  that  light. 
Out  of  that  light  proceeding  heard  a  voice 
Uttering  high  words,  which,  whether  sleep  or  wake, 
In  me  were  fixed,  and  in  me  must  abide. 

When  the  enemy  is  near  thee. 

Call  on  us ! 
In  our  hands  we  will  upbear  thee, 
He  shall  neither  scathe  nor  scare  thee, 
He  shall  fly  thee,  and  shall  fear  thee. 

Call  on  us ! 
Call  when  all  good  friends  have  left  thee. 
Of  all  good  sights  and  sounds  bereft  thee ; 
Call  when  hope  and  heart  are  sinking, 
And  the  brain  is  sick  with  thinking. 

Help,  0  help ! 
Call,  and  following  close  behind  thee 
There  shall  haste,  and  there  shall  find  thee, 

Help,  sure  help. 

When  the  panic  comes  upon  thee. 
When  necessity  seems  on  thee, 
Hope  and  choice  have  all  foregone  thee. 
Fate  and  force  are  closing  o'er  thee. 
And  but  one  way  stands  before  thee  — 

Call  on  us ! 
Oh,  and  if  thou  dost  not  call, 
lie  but  faithful,  that  is  all. 
Go  right  on,  and  close  behind  theo 
There  shall  follow  still  and  find  thee, 
Help,  sure  help. 


DIPSYCHUS.  129 


Scene  VIII.  —  In  the  Piazza. 

Di.  Not  for  thy  service,  thou  imperious  fiend, 
Not  to  do  thy  work,  or  the  like  of  thine ; 
Not  to  please  thee,  0  base  and  fallen  spirit ! 
But  One  Most  High,  Most  True,  whom  without  thee 
It  seems  I  cannot. 

0  the  misery 
That  one  must  truck  and  practise  with  the  world 
To  gain  the  'vantage-ground  to  assail  it  from ; 
To  set  upon  the  Giant  one  must  lirst, 

0  perfidy  !  have  eat  the  Giant's  bread. 
If  I  submit,  it  is  but  to  gain  time 

And  arms  and  stature :  'tis  but  to  lie  safe 
Until  the  hour  strike  to  arise  and  slay : 
'Tis  the  old  story  of  the  adder's  brood 
Feeding  and  nesting  till  the  fangs  be  grown. 
Were  it  not  nobler  done,  then,  to  act  fair, 
To  accept  the  service  with  the  wages,  do 
Frankly  the  devil's  work  for  the  devil's  pay  ? 
Oh,  but  another  my  allegiance  holds 
Inalienably  his.     How  much  soe'er 

1  might  submit,  it  must  be  to  rebel. 
Submit  then  sullenly,  that's  no  dishonour. 
Yet  I  could  deem  it  better  too  to  starve 

And  die  untraitored.     0,  who  sent  me,  though  ? 

Sent  me,  and  to  do  something  —  O  hard  master !  — 

To  do  a  treachery.     But  indeed  'tis  done ; 

I  have  already  taken  of  the  pay 

And  curst  the  payer ;  take  I  must,  curse  too. 

Alas !  the  little  strength  that  I  possess 

Derives,  I  think,  of  him.     So  still  it  is, 

The  timid  child  that  clung  unto  her  skirts, 

A  boy,  will  slight  his  mother,  and,  grown  a  man, 

His  father  too.     There's  Scripture  too  for  that ! 

Do  we  owe  fathers  nothing  —  mothers  nought  ? 

Is  filial  duty  folly  ?     Yet  He  says, 

*  He  that  loves  father,  mother  more  than  me ; ' 

Yea,  and  '  the  man  his  parents  shall  desert,' 

The  Ordinance  says,  '  and  cleave  unto  his  wife.' 

0  man,  behold  thy  wife,  the  hard  naked  world ; 


130  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Adam,  accept  thy  Eve. 

So  still  it  is, 
The  tree  exhausts  the  soil ;  creepers  kill  it, 
Their  insects  them:  the  lever -finds  its  fulcrum 
On  what  it  then  o'erthrows  ;  the  homely  spade 
In  labour's  hand  unscrupulously  seeks 
Its  first  momentum  on  the  very  clod 
Which  next  will  be  upturned.     It  seems  a  law. 
And  am  not  I,  though  I  but  ill  recall 
My  happier  age,  a  kidnapped  child  of  Heaven, 
Whom  these  uncircumcised  Philistines 
Have  by  foul  play  shorn,  blinded,  maimed,  and  kept 
For  what  more  glorious  than  to  make  them  sport  ? 
Wait,  then,  wait,  0  my  soul !  grow,  grow,  ye  locks, 
Then  perish  they,  and  if  need  is,  I  too. 

Sp.  (aside).   A  truly  admirable  proceeding ! 
Could  there  be  finer  special  pleading 
When  scruples  would  be  interceding  ? 
There's  no  occasion  I  should  stay ; 
He  is  working  out,  his  own  queer  way, 
The  sum  I  set  him ;  and  this  day 
Will  bring  it,  neither  less  nor  bigger, 
Exact  to  my  predestined  figure. 

Scene  IX.  —  In  the  Public  Garden. 

Di.   Twenty-one  past  —  twenty-five  coming  on; 
One-third  of  life  departed,  nothing  done. 
Out  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness 
That  we  make  friends,  the  Scripture  is  express. 
My  Spirit,  come,  we  will  agree ; 
Content,  you'll  take  a  moiety. 

Sp.   A  moiety,  ye  gods,  he,  he  ! 

Di.   Three-quarters  then  ?     0  griping  beast ; 
Leave  me  a  decimal  at  least. 

Sp.   Oh,  one  of  ten !  to  infect  the  nine 
And  make  the  devil  a  one  be  mine ! 
Oh,  one !  to  jib  all  day,  God  wot, 
When  all  the  rest  would  go  full  trot ! 
One  very  little  one,  eh  ?  to  doubt  with. 
Just  to  pause,  think,  and  look  al)0ut  with  ? 
In  course!  you  counted  on  no  less  — 
You  thought  it  likely  I'd  say  yes ! 


DI PSYCH  us.  131 

Di.    Be  it  then  thus  —  since  that  it  must,  it  seems. 
Welcome,  O  workl,  henceforth ;  and  farewell  dreams ! 
Yet  know,  Mephisto,  knoAV,  nor  you  nor  I 
Can  in  this  matter  either  sell  or  buy ; 
For  the  fee  simple  of  this  trifling  lot 
To  you  or  me,  trust  me,  pertaineth  not. 
I  can  but  render  what  is  of  my  will, 
And  behind  it  somewhat  remaineth  still. 
Oh,  your  sole  chance  was  in  the  childish  mind 
Whose  darkness  dreamed  that  vows  like  this  could  bind; 
Thinking  all  lost,  it  made  all  lost,  and  brought 
In  fact  the  ruin  which  had  been  but  thought. 
Thank  Heaven  (or  you)  that's  past  these  many  years, 
And  we  have  knowledge  wiser  than  our  fears. 
So  your  poor  bargain  take,  my  man, 
And  make  the  best  of  it  you  can. 

Sj).   With  reservations !  oh,  how  treasonable ! 
When  I  had  let  you  off  so  reasonable. 
However,  I  don't  fear ;  be  it  so ! 
Brutus  is  honourable,  I  know ; 
So  mindful  of  the  dues  of  others, 
So  thoughtful  for  his  poor  dear  brothers, 
So  scrupulous,  considerate,  kind  — 
He  wouldn't  leave  the  devil  behind 
If  he  assured  him  he  had  claims 
For  his  good  company  to  hell-flames  ! 
No  matter,  no  matter,  the  bargain's  made ; 
And  I  for  my  part  will  not  be  afraid. 
With  reservations !  oh,  ho,  ho  ! 
But  time,  my  friend,  has  yet  to  show 
Which  of  us  two  will  closest  fit 
The  proverb  of  the  Biter  Bit. 

Di.   Tell  me  thy  name,  now  it  is  over. 

Sp.  Oh ! 

Why,  Mephistopheles,  you  know  — 
At  least  you've  lately  called  me  so : 
Belial  it  was  some  days  ago. 
But  take  your  pick  ;  I've  got  a  score  — 
Never  a  royal  baby  more. 
For  a  brass  plate  upon  a  door 
What  think  you  of  Cosmocrator  ? 

Di.    Tovs  KO(TfxoKpdTopa<;  tov  alwvo<;  tovtov. 
And  that  you  are  indeed,  I  do  not  doubt  you. 


132  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

S}}.   Ephesians,  ain't  it  ?  near  tlie  end 
You  clropt  a  word  to  spare  your  friend. 
What  follows,  too,  in  application 
Would  be  absurd  exaggeration. 

Di.   The  Power  of  this  World  !  hateful  unto  God. 

Sp.    Cosmarchon's  shorter,  but  sounds  odd. 
One  wouldn't  like,  even  if  a  true  devil, 
To  be  taken  for  a  vulgar  Jew  devil. 

Di.   Yet  in  all  these  things  we  —  'tis  Scripture  too  — 
Are  more  than  conquerors,  even  over  you. 

Sp.   Come,  come,  don't  maunder  any  longer, 
Time  tests  the  weaker  and  the  stronger ; 
And  we,  without  procrastination. 
Must  set,  you  know,  to  our  vocation. 
O  goodness  ;  won't  you  find  it  pleasant 
To  own  the  positive  and  present ; 
To  see  yourself  like  people  round, 
And  feel  your  feet  upon  the  ground !  (Exeunt.) 


EPILOGUE  TO  DIPSYCIIUS. 

'  I  don't  very  well  understand  what  it's  all  about,'  said  my 
uncle.  '  I  won't  say  I  didn't  drop  into  a  doze  while  the  young 
man  was  drivelling  tlirough  his  latter  soliloquies.  But  there 
was  a  great  deal  that  was  unmeaning,  vague,  and  involved ;  and 
what  was  most  plain,  was  least  decent  and  least  moral.' 

'  Dear  sir,'  said  I,  'says  the  proverb  —  "  Needs  uuist  when  the 
devil  drives  ;  "  and  if  the  devil  is  to  speak ' 

'  Well,'  said  my  uncle,  '  why  shoidd  he  ?  Nobody  asked  him. 
Not  that  he  didn't  say  much  which,  if  only  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  way  he  said  it,  and  that  it  was  he  who  said  it,  would  have 
been  sensible  enough.' 

'But,  sir,'  said  1,  'perhaps  he  wasn't  a  devil  after  all.  That's 
the  beauty  of  the  poem;  nobody  can  say.  You  see,  dear  sir,  the 
thing  which  it  is  attempted  to  represent  is  tlie  conflict  between 
the  tender  conscience  and  the  world.  Now,  the  over-tender  con- 
.science  will,  of  course,  exaggerate  the  wickedness  of  the  world ; 
and  the  Spirit  in  my  poem  may  be  merely  the  hypothesis  or 
subjective  imagination  formed ' 

'  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  my  dear  boy,'  interrupted  my  uncle, 
'  don't  go  into  the  theory  of  it.  If  you're  wi'ong  in  it,  it  makes 
bad  worse;  if  you're  right,  you  may  be  a  critic,  but  you  can't 
be  a  poet.  And  then  you  know  very  well  I  don't  understand 
all  those  new  words.    But  as  for  that,  I  quite  agree  that  con- 


DT PSYCH  us.  133 

sciences  are  much  too  tender  in  your  generation  —  schoolboys' 
consciences,  too  I  As  my  old  friend  the  Canon  says  of  the 
"Westminster  students,  "  They're  all  so  pious."  It's  all  Arnold's 
doing;  he  spoilt  the  public  schools.' 

'My  dear  uncle,'  said  I,  'how  can  so  venerable  a  sexagenarian 
utter  so  juvenile  a  paradox?  How  often  have  I  not  heard  you 
lament  the  idleness  and  listlessness,  the  boorishness  and  vulgar 
tyranny,  the  brutish  manners  alike,  and  minds ' 

'  Ah  ! '  said  my  uncle,  '  I  may  have  fallen  in  occasionally  with 
the  talk  of  the  day ;  but  at  seventy  one  begins  to  see  clearer 
into  the  bottom  of  one's  mind.  In  middle  life  one  says  so 
many  things  in  the  way  of  business.  Not  that  I  mean  that  the 
old  schools  were  perfect,  any  more  than  we  old  boys  that  were 
there.  But  whatever  else  they  were  or  did,  they  certainly  were 
in  harmony  with  the  world,  and  they  certainly  did  not  disqualify 
the  country's  youth  for  after-life  and  the  country's  service.' 

'But,  my  dear  sir,  this  bringing  the  schools  of  the  country 
into  harmony  with  public  opinion  is  exactly ' 

'  Don't  interrupt  me  with  public  opinion,  my  dear  nephew ; 
you'll  quote  me  a  leading  article  next.  "  Young  men  must  be 
young  men,"  as  the  worthy  head  of  your  college  said  to  me 
touching  a  case  of  rustication.  "My  dear  sir,"  said  I,  "I  only 
wish  to  heaven  they  would  be ;  but  as  for  my  own  nephews, 
they  seem  to  me  a  sort  of  hobbadi-hoy  cherub,  too  big  to  be 
innocent,  and  too  simple  for  anything  else.  They're  full  of  the 
notion  of  the  world  being  so  wicked  and  of  their  taking  a 
higher  line,  as  they  call  it.  I  only  fear  they'll  never  take  any 
line  at  all."  What  is  the  true  purpose  of  education  V  Simply 
to  make  plain  to  the  young  understanding  the  laws  of  the  life 
they  will  have  to  enter.  For  example  —  that  lying  won't  do, 
thieving  still  less ;  that  idleness  will  get  punished ;  that  if  they  are 
cowards,  the  whole  world  will  be  against  them;  that  if  they  will 
have  their  own  way,  they  must  fight  for  it.  As  for  the  con- 
science, mamma,  I  take  it  —  such  as  mammas  are  nowadays, 
at  any  rate — has  probably  set  that  agoing  fast  enough  already. 
What  a  blessing  to  see  her  good  little  chUd  come  back  a  brave 
young  devil-may-care ! ' 

'  p]xactly,  my  dear  sir.  As  if  at  twelve  or  fourteen  a  round- 
about boy,  with  his  three  meals  a  day  inside  him,  is  likely  to  be 
over-troubled  with  scruples ! ' 

'  Put  him  through  a  strong  course  of  confirmation  and  sacra- 
ments, backed  up  with  sermons  and  private  admonitions,  and 
what  is  much  the  same  as  auricular  confession,  and  really,  my 
dear  nephew,  I  can't  answer  for  it  but  he  mayn't  turn  out  as 
great  a  goose  as  you  —  pardon  me  —  were  about  the  age  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen.' 

'  But  to  have  passed  through  that,  my  dear  sir !  surely  that 
can  be  no  harm.' 

'  I  don't  know.    Your  constitutions  don't  seem  to  recover  it, 


134  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

quite.  We  did  without  these  foolish  measles  well  enough  in 
my  time.' 

'  Westminster  had  its  Cowper,  my  dear  sir;  and  other  schools 
had  theirs  also,  mute  and  inglorious,  but  surely  not  few.' 

'  Ah,  ah !  the  beginning  of  troubles ' 

'You  see,  my  dear  sir,  you  must  not  refer  it  to  Arnold,  at  all, 
at  all.     Anything  that  Arnold  did  in  this  direction ' 

'  Why,  my  dear  boy,  how  often  have  I  not  heard  from  you, 
how  he  used  to  attack  offences,  not  as  offences  —  the  right  view 
—  against  discipline,  but  as  sin,  heinous  guilt,  I  don't  know 
what  beside!  Why  didn't  he  flog  them  and  hold  his  tongue? 
Flog  them  he  did,  but  why  preach  ?  ' 

*  If  he  did  err  in  this  way,  sir,  which  I  hardly  think,  I  ascribe 
it  to  the  spirit  of  the  time.  The  real  cause  of  the  evil  you 
complain  of,  which  to  a  certain  extent  I  admit,  was,  I  take  it, 
the  religious  movement  of  the  last  century,  beginning  with 
Wesleyanism,  and  culminating  at  last  in  Puseyism.  This  over- 
excitation of  the  religious  sense,  resulting  in  this  irrational, 
almost  animal  irritability  of  consciences,  was,  in  many  ways,  as 
foreign  to  Arnold  as  it  is  proper  to ' 

'  Well,  well,  my  dear  nephew,  if  you  like  to  make  a  theory  of 
it,  pray  write  it  out  for  yourself  nicely  in  full;  but  your  poor  old 
uncle  does  not  like  theories,  and  is  moreover  sadly  sleepy.' 

'  Good  niglit,  dear  uncle,  good  night.  Only  let  me  say  you 
six  more  verses.' 


*  DIPSYCHUS  CONTINUED. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

[^An  interval  of  thirty  years.'] 

Scene  I.  —  In  London.     Dipsychus  in  his  Study. 

Dipsychus.   0  God !   0  God !  and  must  I  still  go  on 
Doing  this  woi-k  —  I  know  not,  hell's  or  tliine ; 
And  these  rewards  receiving  —  sure  not  tliine ; 
The  adulation  of  a  foolish  crowd, 
Half  foolish  and  half  greedy ;  upright  judge  — 
Lawyer  acute  —  the  Mansfield  and  the  Hale 
In  one  united  to  bless  modern  Courts. 
0  God !  0  God  !     According  to  the  law, 
With  solemn  face  to  solemn  sentence  lit,  • 

Doing  the  justice  that  is  but  half  just; 
Punishing  wrong  that  is  not  truly  wrong  I 
Administering,  alas,  God !  not  Thy  law. 


DirSYCHUS   CONTINUED.  135 


(Knock  at  the  door.) 

What  ?     Is  the  hour  already  for  tl^e  Court  ? 
Come  in.     Now,  Lord  Chief  Justice,  to  thy  work. 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Serv.   My  lord,  a  woman  begging  to  be  seen. 

Di.   A  woman  begging  to  be  seen  ?     What's  this  ? 
'Tis  not  the  duty  of  your  post,  my  friend. 
To  give  admittance  on  the  busy  days 
Of  a  hard  labourer  in  this  great  world 
To  all  poor  creatures  begging  to  be  seen. 
Something  unusual  in  it  ?     Bid  her  wait 
In  the  room  below,  I'll  see  her  as  I  pass. 
Is  the  horse  there  ? 

Serv.  He's  coming  round,  my  lord. 

Di.   Say  I  will  see  her  as  I  pass.  (Exit  Servant.) 

I  have  but  one  way  left ;  but  that  one  way, 
On  which  once  entered,  there  is  no  return ; 
And  as  there's  no  return,  no  looking  back. 
Amidst  the  smoky  tumult  of  this  field 
Whereon,  enlisted  once,  in  arms  we  stand, 
Nor  know,  nor  e'en  remotely  can  divine 
The  sense,  or  purport,  or  the  probable  end, 
One  only  guide  to  our  blind  work  we  keep, 
To  obey  orders  and  to  fight  it  out. 

Some  hapless  sad  petitioner,  no  doubt. 
With  the  true  plaintiveness  of  real  distress, 
Twisting  her  misery  to  a  marketable  lie. 
To  waste  my  close-shorn  interval  of  rest. 
She  came  upon  me  in  my  weaker  thoughts. 
Those  weaker  thoughts  that  still  indeed  recur, 
But  come,  my  servants,  at  a  word  to  go. 

{Enter  Woman.) 

What  is  it  ?  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  ? 
Who  ar?  you  ? 

Worn.  Once  you  knew  me  well  enough. 

Di.   Oh,  you !    I  had  been  told  that  you  were  dead. 

Worn.  So  your  creatures  said  ; 

But  I  shall  live,  I  think,  till  you  die  too. 


136  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Di.   What  do  you  want  ?     Money,  subsistence,  bread  ? 

Worn.    I  wanted  bread,  money,  all  things,  'tis  true, 
But  wanted,  above  all  things,  to  see  you. 

Di.   This  cannot  be.^  What  has  been  done  is  o'er. 
You  have  no  claim  or  right  against  me  more ; 
I  have  dealt  justly  with  you  to  the  uttermost. 

Worn.   I  did  not  come  to  say  you  were  unjust  — 
I  came  to  see  you  only. 

Di.  Hear  me  now. 

Remember,  it  was  not  the  marriage  vow. 
Nor  promise  e'er  of  chaste  fidelity. 
That  joined  us  thirty  years  ago  in  a  tie 
Which  I,  I  think,  scarce  sought.     It  was  not  I 
That  took  your  innocence ;  you  spoiled  me  of  mine. 
And  yet,  as  though  the  vow  had  been  divine, 
Was  I  not  faithful  ?     Were  you  so  to  me  ? 
Had  you  been  white  in  spotless  purity. 
Could  I  have  clung  to  you  more  faithfully  ? 
I  left  you,  after  wrongs  I  blush  with  shame 
E'en  now  through  all  my  fifty  years  to  name. 
I  left  you ;  yet  I  stinted  still  my  ease,  — 
Curtailed  my  pleasures  —  toil  still  extra  toil,  — 
To  repay  you  for  what  you  never  gave. 
Is  it  not  true  ? 

Worn.  Go  on,  say  all  and  more. 

Upon  this  body,  as  the  basis',  lies 
The  ladder  that  has  raised  you  to  the  skies. 

Di.   Is  that  so  much  ?  am  I  indeed  so  high  ? 
Am  I  not  rather 

The  slave  and  servant  of  the  wretched  world. 
Liveried  and  finely  dressed  —  yet  all  the  same 
A  menial  and  lacquey  seeking  place 
For  hire,  and  for  hire's  sake  doing  work  ? 

Worn.    I  do  not  know ;  you  have  wife  and  child  I  know, 
Domestic  comfort  and  a  noble  name, 
And  people  speak  in  my  ears  too  your  praise, 
0  man,  O  man !  do  you  not  know  in  your  heai't 
It  was  for  this  you  came  to  me  — 
It  was  for  this  I  took  you  to  my  breast  ? 
0  man,  man,  man  ! 

You  come  to  us  with  your  dalliance  in  the  street, 
You  pay  us  with  your  miserable  gold, 
You  do  not  know  how  in  the 


DIPSYCHUS   CONTINUED.  137 

Di.   (looks  at  his  ivatch).     You  must  go  now.     Justice 
calls  me  elsewhere ; 
Justice  —  might  keep  you  here. 
You  may  return  again;  stay,  let  me  see  — 
Six  weeks  to-morrow  you  shall  see  me  again ; 
Now  you  must  go.     Do  you  need  money  ?  here, 
It  is  your  due :  take  it,  that  you  may  live ; 
And  see  me,  six  weeks  fi'om  to-morrow,  elsewhere. 

Worn.  I  will  not  go ; 

You  must  stay  here  and  hear  me,  or  I  shall  die ! 
It  were  ill  for  you  that  I  should. 

Di.  What !  shall  the  nation  wait  ? 

Woman,  if  I  have  wronged  you,  it  was  for  good  — 
Good  has  come  of  it.     Lo,  I  have  done  some  work. 
Over  the  blasted  and  the  blackened  spot 
Of  our  unhappy  and  unhallowed  deed 
I  have  raised  a  mausoleum  of  such  acts 
As  in  this  world  do  honour  unto  me, 
But  in  the  next  to  thee. 

Worn.  Hear  me,  I  cannot  go ! 

Di.   It  cannot  be ;  the  court,  the  nation  waits. 
Is  not  the  work,  too,  yours  ? 

Worn.  •  I  go,  to  die  this  night ! 

Di.   I  cannot  help  it.     Duty  lies  here.     Depart ! 

Worn.   Listen ;  before  I  die,  one  word !     In  old  times 
You  called  me  Pleasure  —  my  name  now  is  Guilt. 


Scene  II.  —  In  Westminster  Hall. 

1st  Barrister.  They  say  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  is  unwell ; 
Did  you  observe  how,  after  that  decision 
Which  all  the  world  admired  so,  suddenly 
He  became  pale  and  looked  in  the  air  and  staggered, 
As  if  some  phantom  floated  on  his  eyes  ? 
He  is  a  strange  man. 

Bar.  2.   He  is  unwell,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that. 
But  why  or  how  is  quite  another  question. 
It  is  odd  to  find  so  stern  and  strong  a  man 
Give  way  before  he's  sixty.     Many  a  mind, 
Apparently  less  vigorous  than  his. 
Has  kept  its  full  judicial  faculty. 
And  sat  the  woolsack  past  threescore  and  ten. 


138  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Bar.  3.   No  business  to  be  done  to-day.    Have  you  heard 
The  Chief  Justice  is  lying  dangerously  ill  ? 
Apoplexy,  paralysis,  Heaven  knows  what  —  some  seizure. 

Bar.  1.   Heavens !  that  will  be  a  loss  indeed ! 

Bar.  2.  A  loss 

Which  will  be  some  one's  gain,  however. 

Bar.  1.  Not  the  nation's, 

If  this  sage  Chancellor  give  it  to 

But  is  he  really  sure  to  die,  do  you  think  ? 

Bar.  3.    A  very  sudden  and  very  alarming  attack. 
And  now  you  know  to  the  full  as  much  as  I, 
Or,  as  I  fancy,  any  lawyer  here. 

Bar.  2.    Do  you  know  anything  of  his  early  life  ? 

Bar.  1.    My  father  knew  him  at  college :  a  reading  man, 
The  quietest  of  the  quiet,  shy  and  timid. 
And  college  honours  past. 
No  one  believed  he  ever  would  do  anything. 

Bai:  2.     He  was  a  moral  sort  of  prig,  I've  heard, 
Till  he  was  twenty-tive ;  and  even  then 
He  never  entered  into  life  as  most  men. 
That  is  the  reason  why  he  fails  so  soon. 
It  takes  high  feeding  and  a  well-taught  conscience 
To  breed  your  mighty  hero  of  the  law. 
So  much  the  worse  for  him;  so  much  the  better 
For  all  expectants  noAV. 

Bar.  3.  For ,  for  one. 

Bar.  2.   Well,  there'll  be  several  changes,  as  I  think. 
Not  that  I  think  the  shock  of  new  promotion 
Will  vibrate  quite  perceptibly  down  here. 
There  was  a  story  that  I  once  was  told. 
Some  woman  that  they  used  to  tease  him  with. 

Bar.  1.    He  grew  too  stern  for  teasing  before  long ; 
A  man  with  greater  power  of  what  I  think 
They  call,  in  some  new  sense  of  the  word.  Repulsion, 
I  think  I  never  saw  in  all  my  life. 

Bar.  2.   A  most  forbidding  man  in  private  life, 
I've  always  heard.     What's  this  new  news  ? 

Bar.  4.   The  Lord  Chief  Justice  has  resigned. 

Bar.  1,  2,  3.  Is  it  true  ? 

Really?    Quite  certain ? 

Bar.  4.  Publicly  announced. 

You're  quite  behind.     Most  i)robably  ere  this 
The  Times  has  ^ot  it  iu  u  new  edition. 


DIPSYCHUS   CONTINUED.  139 


Scene  III.  —  Dipsychus  in  his  otvn  house,  alone. 

Di.   She  will  come  yet,  I  think,  although  she  said 
She  would  go  hence  and  die ;  I  cannot  tell. 
Should  I  have  made  the  nation's  business  wait, 
That  I  might  listen  to  an  old  sad  tale 
Uselessly  iterated  ?     Ah  —  ah  me ! 
I  am  grown  weak  indeed ;  those  old  black  thoughts 
No  more  as  servants  at  my  bidding  go, 
But  as  stern  tyrants  look  me  in  the  face. 
And  mock  my  reason's  inefficient  hand 
That  sways  to  wave  them  hence. 

Serv.   You  rung,  my  lord  ? 

Di.  Come  here,  my  friend.     The  woman, 

A  beggar-woman,  whom  six  weeks  ago. 
As  you  remember,  you  admitted  to  me. 
You  may  admit  again  if  she  returns.  (Exit  Sei'vant.) 

Will  she  return  ?  or  did  she  die  ?     I  searched 
Newspaper  columns  through  to  find  a  trace 
Of  some  poor  corpse  discovered  in  the  Thames, 
Weltering  in  filth  or  stranded  on  the  shoals. 

*  You  called  me  Pleasure  once,  I  now  am  Guilt/ 
Is  that  her  voice  ?  — 

'Once  Pleasure,  and  now  Guilt  —  and  after  this 
Guilt  evermore.'     I  hear  her  voice  again. 
'  Once  Guilt,  but  now '  —  I  know  not  Avhat  it  says ;  — 
Some  word  in  some  strange  language,  that  my  ears 
Have  never  heard,  yet  seem  to  long  to  know. 

*  Once  Pleasure  and  now  Guilt,  and  after  this '  — • 
What  does  she  say  ?  — .... 


POEMS   ON  LIFE   AND  DUTY. 


DUTY. 

Duty  —  that's  to  say,  complying 

With  whate'er's  expected  here ; 
On  your  unknown  cousin's  dying, 

Straight  be  ready  with  the  tear ; 
Upon  etiquette  relying. 
Unto  usage  nought  denying. 
Lend  your  waist  to  be  embraced. 

Blush  not  even,  never  fear ; 
Claims  of  kith  and  kin  connection, 

Claims  of  manners  honour  still, 
Eeady  money  of  affection 

Pay,  whoever  drew  the  bill. 
With  the  form  conforming  duly. 
Senseless  what  it  meaneth  truly, 
Go  to  church  —  the  world  require  you, 

To  balls  —  the  world  require  you  too. 
And  marry  —  papa  and  mamma  desire  you, 

And  your  sisters  and  schoolfellows  do. 
r  Duty  — 'tis  to  take  on  trust 
It  What  things  are  good,  and  right,  and  just; 

And  whether  indeed  they  be  or  be  not, 

Try  not,  test  not,  feel  not,  see  not : 
v    'Tis  walk  and  dance,  sit  down  and  rise 

By  leading,  opening  ne'er  your  eyes ; 
Stunt  sturdy  limbs  that  Nature  gave, 
And  be  drawn  in  a  Bath  chair  along  to  the  grave. 
'Tis  the  stern  and  prompt  suppressing 

As  an  obvious  deadly  sin, 
141 


142  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

All  the  questing  and  the  guessing 
Of  the  soul's  own  soul  within : 
'Tis  the  coward,  acquiescence 

In  a  destiny's  behest, 
To  a  shade  by  terror  made, 
Sacrificing,  aye,  the  essence 

Of  all  that's  truest,  noblest,  best ; 
'Tis  the  blind  non-recognition 

Or  of  goodness,  truth,  or  beauty. 
Save  by  precept  and  submission ; 

Moral  blank,  and  moral  void. 

Life  at  very  birth  destroyed. 
Atrophy,  exinanition ! 
Duty! 
Yea,  by  duty's  prime  condition 

Pure  nonentity  of  duty ! 


Wlife  is  struggle.  \l 

ITo  wear  out  heart,  and  nerves,  and  brain, 

/  And  give  oneself  a  world  of  pain ; 

I  Be  eager,  angry,  fierce,  and  hot, 

I  Imperious,  supple —  God  knows  what, 

For  what's  all  one  to  have  or  not ; 

0  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain ! 

For  'tis  not  joy,  it  is  not  gain, 

It  is  not  in  itself  a  bliss, 

I  Only  it  is  precisely  this 
That  keeps  us  all  alive. 

To  say  we  truly  feel  the  pain. 
And  quite  are  sinking  with  the  strain;  — 
Entirely,  simply,  undeceived, 
Believe,  and  say  we  ne'er  believed 
The  object,  e'en  were  it  achieved, 
A  thing  we  e'er  had  cared  to  keep ; 
With  heart  and  soul  to  hold  it  cheap. 
And  then  to  go  and  try  it  again  ; 
O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain ! 
^0,  'tis  not  joy,  and  'tis  not  bliss, 
Only  it  is  precisely  this 

That  keeps  us  still  alive. 


POEMS  ON  LIFE  AND  DUTY.  143 


\V   IN  THE  GREAT  METROPOLIS.  \V 

Each  for  himself  is  still  the  rule ; 
We  learn  it  when  we  go  to  school  — 
The  devil  take  the  hindmost,  0  ! 

And  when  the  schoolboys  grow  to  men, 
In  life  they  learn  it  o'er  again  — 
The  devil  take  the  hindmost,  0  ! 

For  in  the  church,  and  at  the  bar, 
On  'Change,  at  court,  where'er  they  are, 
The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  0 ! 

Husband  for  husband,  wife  for  wife, 
Are  careful  that  in  married  life 

The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  0 ! 

From  youth  to  age,  whate'er  the  game. 
The  unvarying  practice  is  the  same  — 
The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  0  ! 

And  after  death,  we  do  not  know, 
But  scarce  can  doubt,  where'er  we  go. 
The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  0 ! 

Ti  rol  de  rol,  ti  rol  de  ro. 

The  devil  take  the  hindmost,  0  ! 


N  THE  LATEST  DECALOGUE.  W 

Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only ;  who 
Would  be  at  the  expense  of  two  ? 
No  graven  images  may  be 
Worshipped,  except  the  currency  : 
Swear  not  at  all ;  for,  for  thy  curse 
Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse : 
At  church  on  Sunday  to  attend 
Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend ; 


144  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Honour  thy  parents  ;  that  is,  all 
From  whom  advancement  may  befall ; 
Thou  shalt  not  kill ;  bvit  need'st  not  strive 
Officiously  to  keep  alive : 
Do  not  adultery  commit ; 
Advantage  rarely  comes  of  it : 
Thou  shalt  not  steal ;  an  empty  feat, 
When  it's  so  lucrative  to  cheat : 
Bear  not  false  witness  ;  let  the  lie 
Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  fly : 
Thou  shalt  not  covet,  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition. 


\tHE  questioning   SPIRIT. 


\\ 


Di 


The  human  spirits  saw  I  on  a  day, 
Sitting  and  looking  each  a  different  way ; 
And  hardly  tasking,  subtly  questioning, 
Another  spirit  went  around  the  ring 
To  each  and  each :  and  as  he  ceased  his  say, 
Each  after  each,  I  heard  them  singly  sing, 
Some  querulously  high,  some  softly,  sadly  low. 
We  know  not —  what  avails  to  know  ? 
We  know  not  —  wherefore  need  we  know  ? 
This  answer  gave  they  still  unto  his  suing, 
^e  know  not,  let  us  do  as  we  are  doing. 

est  thou  not  know  that  these  things  only  seem  ?  — 
I  know  not,  let  me  dream  my  dream. 
Are  dust  and  ashes  fit  to  make  a  treasure  ?  — 
I  know  not,  let  me  take  my  pleasure. 
What  shall  avail  the  knowledge  thou  hast  sought  ?  — 
I  know  not,  let  me  think  my  thought. 
What  is  the  end  of  strife  ?  — 
I  know  not,  let  me  live  my  life. 
How  many  days  or  e'er  thou  mean'st  to  move?  — 
I  know  not,  let  me  love  my  love. 
Were  not  things  old  once  new  ?  — 
I  know  not,  let  me  do  as  others  do. 
And  when  the  rest  were  over  past, 
I  know  not,  I  will  do  my  duty,  said  the  last. 


POEMS   ON  LIFE  AND  DUTY.  145 

Thy  duty  do  ?  rejoined  the  voice, 
Ah,  do  it,  do  it,  and  rejoice ; 
But  shalt  thou  then,  when  all  is  done, 
Enjoy  a  love,  embrace  a  beauty 
Like  these,  that  may  be  seen  and  won 
In  life,  whose  course  will  then  be  run ; 
Or  wilt  thou  be  where  there  is  none  ? 
I  know  not,  I  will  do  my  duty. 

And  taking  up  the  word  around,  above,  below. 

Some  querulously  high,  some  softly,  sadly  low. 

We  know  not,  sang  they  all,  nor  ever  need  we  know ; 

We  know  not,  sang  they,  what  avails  to  know? 

Whereat  the  questioning  spirit,  some  short  space, 

Though  unabashed,  stood  quiet  in  his  place. 

But  as  the  echoing  chorus  died  away 

And  to  their  dreams  the  rest  returned  apace, 

By  the  one  spirit  I  saw  him  kneeling  low. 

And  in  a  silvery  whisper  heard  him  say: 

Truly,  thou  know'st  not,  and  thou  need'st  not  know ; 

Hope  only,  hope  thou,  and  believe  alway : 

I  also  know  not,  and  I  need  not  know. 

Only  with  questionings  pass  I  to  and  fro. 

Perplexing  these  that  sleep,  and  in  their  folly 

Imbreeding  doubt  and  sceptic  melancholy ; 

Till  that,  their  dreams  deserting,  they  with  me 

Come  all  to  this  true  ignorance  and  thee. 

1847. 


BETHESDA. 

A   SEQUEL. 


I  SAW  again  the  spirits  on  a  day. 
Where  on  the  earth  in  mournful  case  they  lay ; 
Eive  porches  were  there,  and  a  pool  and  round, 
Huddling  in  blankets,  stretv^n  upon  the  ground, 
Tied-up  and  bandaged,  weary,  sore,  and  spent, 
The  maimed  and  halt,  diseased  and  impotent. 
For  a  great  angel  came,  'twas  said,  and  stirred 
The  pool  at  certain  seasons,  and  the  word 
Was,  with  this  people  of  the  sick,  that  they 


146  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Who  in  the  waters  here  their  limbs  should  lay 
Before  the  motion  on  the  surface  ceased 
Should  of  their  torment  straightway  be  released. 
So  with  shrunk  bodies  and  with  heads  down-dropt, 
Stretched  on  the  steps,  and  at  the  pillars  propt, 
Watching  by  day  and  listening  through  the  night, 
They  filled  the  place,  a  miserable  sight. 

And  I  beheld  that  on  the  stony  floor 

He  too,  that  spoke  of  duty  once  before, 

No  otherwise  than  others  here  to-day, 

Foredone  and  sick  and  sadly  muttering  lay. 

'  I  know  not,  I  will  do  —  what  is  it  I  would  say  ? 

What  was  that  word  which  once  sufficed  alone  for  all, 

Which  now  I  seek  in  vain,  and  never  can  recall  ? ' 

And  then,  as  weary  of  in  vain  renewing 

His  question,  thus  his  mournful  thought  pursuing, 

'  I  know  not,  I  must  do  as  other  men  are  doing.' 

But  what  the  waters  of  that  pool  might  be, 
Of  Lethe  were  they,  or  Philosophy ; 
And  whether  he,  long  waiting,  did  attain 
Deliverance  from  the  burden  of  his  pain 
There  with  the  rest;  or  whether,  yet  before, 
Some  more  diviner  stranger  passed  the  door 
With  his  small  company  into  that  sad  place, 
And  breathing  hope  into  the  sick  man's  face, 
Bade  him  take  up  his  bed,  and  rise  and  go, 
What  the  end  were,  and  whether  it  were  so, 
Further  than  this  I  saw  not,  neither  know. 
1849. 

HOPE  EVERMORE  AND   BELIEVE! 

Hope   evermore   and  believe,  0  man,  for  e'en   as   thy 
thought 
So  are  the  things  that  thou  see'st;  e'en  as  thy  hope 
and  belief. 
Cowardly  art  thou  and  timid  ?  they  rise  to  provoke  thee 
against  them ; 
Hast  thou  courage  ?  enough,  see  them  exulting  to  yield. 
Yea,  the  rough  rock,  the  dull  earth,  the  wild  sea's  furying 
waters 


POEMS   ON  LIFE   AND  DUTY.  147 

(Violent  say'st  thou  and  hard,  mighty  thou  think'st  to 
destroy), 
All  with  ineffable  longing  are  waiting  their  Invader, 
All,  with  one  varying  voice,  call  to  him.  Come  and 
subdue ; 
Still  for  their  Conqueror  call,  and,  but  for  the  joy  of 
being  conquered 
(Rapture  they  will  not  forego),  dare  to  resist  and  rebel ; 
Still,  when  resisting  and  raging,  in  soft  undervoice  say 
unto  him, 
Tear  not,  retire  not,  0  man ;  hope  evermore  and  believe. 

Go  from  the  east  to  the  west,  as  the  sun  and  the  stars 
direct  thee, 
Go  with  the  girdle  of  man,  go  and  encompass  the  earth. 
Not  for  the  gain  of  the  gold  ;  for  the  getting,  the  hoard- 
ing, the  having. 
But  for  the  joy  of  the  deed ;  but  for  the  Duty  to  do. 
Go  with  the  spiritual  life,  the  higher  volition  and  action. 
With  the  great  girdle  of  God,  go  and  encompass  the 
earth. 

Go ;  say  not  in  thy  heart.  And  what  then  were  it  accom- 
plished. 
Were  the  wild  impulse  allayed,  what  were  the  use  or 
the  good ! 
Go,  when  the  instinct  is  stilled,  and  when  the  deed  is 
accomplished. 
What  thou  has  done  and  shalt  do,  shall  be  declared  to 
thee  then. 
Go  with  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  yet  evermore  in  thy 
spirit 
Say  to  thyself :  It  is  good :  yet  is  there  better  than  it. 
This  that  I  see  is  not  all,  and  this  that  I  do  is  but  little ; 
Nevertheless  it  is  good,  though  there  is  better  than  it. 


BLESSED  ARE  THEY  THAT  HAVE  NOT  SEEN ! 

0  HAPPY  they  whose  hearts  receive 
The  implanted  word  with  faith ;  believe 
Because  their  fathers  did  before, 


148  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

Because  they  learnt,  and  ask  no  more. 
High  triumphs  of  convictions  wrought, 
And  won  by  individual  thought; 
The  joy,  delusive  oft,  but  keen. 
Of  having  with  our  own  eyes  seen, 
What  if  they  have  not  felt  nor  known  ? 
An  amplitude  instead  they  own, 
By  no  self-binding  ordinance  prest 
To  toil  in  labour  they  detest : 
By  no  deceiving  reasoning  tied 
Or  this  or  that  way  to  decide. 

0  happy  they !  above  their  head 

The  glory  of  the  unseen  is  spread ; 

Their  happy  heart  is  free  to  range 

Thro'  largest  tracts  of  pleasant  change ; 

Their  intellects  encradled  lie 

In  boundless  possibility. 

For  impulses  of  varying  kinds 

The  Ancient  Home  a  lodging  finds : 

Each  appetite  our  nature  breeds. 

It  meets  with  viands  for  its  needs. 

0  happy  they !  nor  need  they  fear 
The  wordy  strife  that  rages  near : 
All  reason  Avastes  by  day,  and  more, 
Will  instinct  in  a  night  restore. 
0  happy,  so  their  state  but  give 
A  clue  by  which  a  man  can  live  ; 
0  blest,  unless  'tis  proved  by  fact 
A  dream  impossible  to  act. 


COLD  COMFORT. 

Say,  will  it,  when  our  hairs  are  grey. 
And  wintry  suns  half  light  the  day. 
Which  cheering  hope  and  strengthening  trust 
Have  left,  departed,  turned  to  dust,  — 
Say,  will  it  soothe  lone  years  to  extract 
From  fitful  shows  with  sense  exact 


POEMS   OAT  LIFE   AND  DUTY.  149 

Their  sad  residuum,  small,  of  fact  ? 
Will  trembling  nerves  their  solace  find 
In  plain  conclusions  of  the  mind  ? 
Or  errant  fancies  fond,  that  still 
To  fretful  motions  prompt  the  will, 
Eepose  upon  effect  and  cause. 
And  action  of  unvarying  laws, 
And  human  life's  familiar  doom. 
And  on  the  all-concluding  tomb  ? 

Or  were  it  to  our  kind  and  race. 
And  our  instructive  selves,  disgrace 
To  wander  then  once  more  in  you. 
Green  fields,  beneath  the  pleasant  blue ; 
To  dream  as  we  were  used  to  dream, 
And  let  things  be  whate'er  they  seem  ? 

0  feeble  shapes  of  beggars  grey 

That,  tottering  on  the  public  way, 

Die  out  in  doting,  dim  decay. 

Is  it  to  you  when  all  is  past 

Our  would-be  wisdom  turns  at  last  ? 


\\  SEHNSUCHT.  '^ 

Whence  are  ye,  vague  desires. 
Which  carry  men  along. 
However  proud  and  strong; 
Which,  having  ruled  to-day, 
To-morrow  pass  away  ? 

Whence  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
Whence  are  ye  ? 

Which  women,  yielding  to. 
Find  still  so  good  and  true ; 
So  true,  so  good  to-day. 
To-morrow  gone  away ; 
Whence  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
Whence  are  ye  ? 

From  seats  of  bliss  above. 
Where  angels  sing  of  love ; 


150  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

From  subtle  airs  around, 
Or  from  the  vulgar  ground, 
Whence  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
Whence  are  ye  ? 

A  message  from  the  blest, 
Or  bodily  unrest ; 
A  call  to  heavenly  good, 
A  fever  in  the  blood : 
What  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
What  are  ye  ? 

Which  men  who  know  you  best 
Are  proof  against  the  least. 
And  rushing  on  to-day. 
To-morrow  cast  away ; 
What  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
What  are  ye  ? 

Which  women,  ever  new. 
Still  warned,  surrender  to ; 
Adored  with  you  to-day, 
Then  cast  with  you  away ; 
What  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
What  are  ye  ? 

Which  unto  boyhood's  heart 
The  force  of  man  impart, 
And  pass,  and  leave  it  cold. 
And  prematurely  old ; 
What  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
What  are  ye  ? 

Which,  tremblingly  confest. 
Pour  in  the  young  girl's  breast 
Joy,  joy  —  the  like  is  none. 
And  leave  her  then  undone  — 
What  are  ye,  vague  desires  ? 
What  are  ye  ? 

Ah  yet !  though  man  be  marred, 
Ignoble  made,  and  hard ; 


POEMS   ON  LIFE  AND  DUTY.  151 

Though  broken  women  lie 
In  angnish  down  to  die  ; 
Ah  yet !  ye  vague  desires, 
Ah  yet! 

By  Him  who  gave  you  birth, 
And  blended  you  with  earth. 
Was  some  good  end  designed 
For  man  and  womankind ; 
Ah  yet !  ye  vague  desires, 
Ah  yet! 

The  petals  of  to-day. 
To-morrow  fallen  away, 
Shall  something  leave  instead, 
To  live  when  they  are  dead ; 
When  you,  ye  vague  desires. 
Have  vanished ; 

A  something  to  survive, 
Of  you  though  it  derive 
Apparent  earthly  birth. 
But  of  far  other  worth 
Than  you,  ye  vague  desires, 
Than  you. 


HIGH  AND  LOW. 

The  grasses  green  of  sweet  content 
That  spring,  no  matter  high  or  low, 
Where'er  a  living  thing  can  grow. 
On  chilly  hills  and  rocky  rent, 
And  by  the  lowly  streamlet's  side — , 
Oh !  why  did  e'er  I  turn  from  these  ?  — 
The  lordly,  tall,  umbrageous  trees. 
That  stand  in  high  aspiring  pride, 
With  massive  bulk  on  high  sustain 
A  world  of  boughs  with  leaf  and  fruits. 
And  drive  their  wide-extending  roots 
Deep  down  into  the  subject  plain. 
Oh,  what  with  these  had  I  to  do  ?  — 


152  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

That  germs  of  things  above  their  kind 
May  live,  pent  up  and  close  confined 
In  humbler  forms,  it  may  be  true ; 
Yet  great  is  that  which  gives  our  lot ; 
High  laws  and  powers  our  will  transcend, 
And  not  for  this,  till  time  do  end, 
Shall  any  be  what  he  is  not. 
Each  in  its  place,  as  each  was  sent. 
Just  nature  ranges  side  by  side  ; 
Alike  the  oak  tree's  lofty  pride 
And  grasses  green  of  sweet  content. 


ALL  IS  WELL. 

Whate'er  you  dream  with  doubt  possest, 
Keep,  keep  it  snug  within  your  breast, 
And  lay  you  down  and  take  your  rest ; 
Forget  in  sleep  the  doubt  and  pain, 
And  when  you  wake,  to  work  again. 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  vessel  goes, 
And  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 

'Twill  all  be  well :  no  need  of  care  ; 
Though  how  it.will,  and  when,  and  where, 
We  cannot  see,  and  can't  declare. 
In  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite  of  thought, 
'Tis  not  in  vain,  and  not  for  nought. 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  ship  it  goes, 
Though  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 


iravja  pel '    ovSei/  fievei. 

Upon  the  water,  in  the  boat, 
I  sit  and  Sketch  as  down  I  float : 
The  stream  is  wide,  the  view  is  fair, 
I  sketch  it  looking  backward  there. 

The  stream  is  strong,  and  as  I  sit 
And  view  the  picture  that  we  quit. 
It  flows  and  flows,  and  bears  the  boat. 
And  I  sit  sketching  as  we  float. 


POEMS   ON  LIFE  AND  DUTY.  153 

Each  pointed  height,  each  wavy  line, 
To  new  and  other  forms  combine  ; 
Proportions  vary,  colours  fade, 
And  all  the  landscape  is  remade. 

Depicted  neither  far  nor  near. 
And  larger  there  and  smaller  here. 
And  varying  down  from  old  to  new, 
E'en  I  can  hardly  think  it  true. 

Yet  still  I  look,  and  still  I  sit, 
Adjusting,  shaping,  altering  it; 
And  still  the  current  bears  the  boat 
And  me,  still  sketching  as  I  float. 

Still  as  I  sit,  with  something  new 
The  foreground  intercepts  my  view ; 
Even  the  distant  mountain  range 
From  the  first  moment  suffers  change. 


THE   STREAM  OF    LIFE. 

O  STREAM  descending  to  the  sea. 
Thy  mossy  banks  between, 

The  flow'rets  blow,  the  grasses  grow, 
The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  play, 
The  fields  the  labourers  till. 

And  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 
And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  life  descending  into  death, 

Our  waking  eyes  behold, 
Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend. 

Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  purposes  our  mind  possess, 

Our  hearts  affections  fill, 
We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn. 

And  thou  descendest  still. 


154  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

O  end  to  which  our  currents  tend, 

Inevitable  sea, 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 

What  shall  we  guess  of  thee  ? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore, 
As  we  our  course  fulfil ; 

Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 
And  be  above  us  still. 


IN  A  LONDON   SQUAKE. 

Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane. 

East  wind  and  frost  are  safely  gone ; 
With  zephyr  mild  and  balmy  rain 

The  summer  comes  serenely  on; 
Earth,  air,  and  sun  and  skies  combine 

To  promise  all  that's  kind  and  fair :  — 
But  thou,  0  human  heart  of  mine, 

Be  still,  contain  thyself,  and  bear. 

December  days  were  brief  and  chill, 

The  winds  of  March  were  wild  and  drear, 
And,  nearing  and  receding  still, 

Spring  never  would,  we  thought,  be  here. 
The  leaves  that  burst,  the  suns  that  shine. 

Had,  not  the  less,  their  certain  date :  — 
And  thou,  0  human  heart  of  mine. 

Be  still,  refrain  thyself,  and  wait. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH : 

A  LONG-VACATION  PASTORAL. 

Nunc  formosissimus  anus 
Ite  meos  felix  quondam  pecus,  ite  camence. 

I. 

Socii  cratera  coronant. 

» 

It  was  the  afternoon ;   and  the  sports  were  now  at  the 

ending. 
Long  had  the  stone  been  put,  tree  cast,  and  thrown  the 

hammer ; 
JJp  the  perpendicular  hill.  Sir  Hector  so  called  it, 
Eight  stout  gillies  had  run,  with  speed  and  agility  won- 
drous ; 
Run  too  the  course  on  the  level  had  been ;   the  leaping 

was  over : 
Last  in  the  show  of  dress,  a  novelty  recently  added, 
Noble  ladies  their  prizes  adjudged  for  costume  that  was 

perfect. 
Turning  the  clansmen  about, *as  they  stood  with  upraised 

elbows ; 
Bowing  their  eye-glassed  brows,  and  fingering  kilt  and 

sporran. 
It  was  four  of  the  clock,  and  the  sports  were  come  to  the 

ending, 
Therefore  the  Oxford  party  went  off  to  adorn  for  the 

dinner. 
Be   it   recorded  in   song  who  was  first,  who   last,  in 

dressing. 
Hope  was  first,  black-tied,  white- waistcoated,  simple.  His 

Honour ; 

155     . 


156  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

For  the  postman  made  out  he  was  heir  to  the  earldom  of 
Hay 

(Being  the   younger   son   of   the   younger   brother,  the 
Colonel), 

Treated  him  therefore  with  special  respect ;  doffed  bon- 
net, and  ever 

Called  him  His  Honour :  His  Honour  he  therefore  was  at 
the  cottage ; 

Always  His  Honour  at  least,  sometimes  the  Viscount  of 
Hay. 
Hope  was  first,  His  Honour,  and  next  to  His  Honour 
the  Tutor. 

Still  more  plain  the  Tutor,  the  grave  man,  nicknamed 
Adam, 

White-tied,  clerical,  silent,  with  antique  square-cut  waist- 
coat 

Formal,  unchanged,  of  black  cloth,  but  with  sense  and 
feeling  beneath  it ; 

Skilful  in  Ethics  and  Logic,  in  Pindar  and  Poets  un- 
rivalled ; 

Shady  in  Latin,  said  Lindsay,  but  topping  in  Plays  and 
Aldrich. 
Somewhat  more  splendid  in  dress,  in  a  Avaistcoat  work 
of  a  lady, 

Lindsay  succeeded;   the  lively,  the  cheery,  cigar-loving 
Lindsay, 

Lindsay  the  ready  of  speech,  the  Piper,  the  Dialectician, 

This  was  his  title  from  Adam  because  of  the  words  he 
invented. 

Who  in  three  weeks  had  created  a  dialect  new  for  the 
party ; 

This  was  his  title  from  Adafli,  but  mostly  they  called  him 
the  Piper. 

Lindsay  succeeded,  the  lively,  the  cheery,  cigar-loving 
Lindsay. 
Hewson  and  Hobbes  were  down  at  the  matutine  bath- 
ing ;  of  course  too 

Arthur,  the  bather  of  bathers,  par  excellence,  Audley  by 
surname, 

Arthur  they  called  him  for  love  and  for  euphony ;  they 
had  been  bathing, 

Where  in  the  morning  was.custom,  where  over  a  ledge  of 
granite 

Into  a  granite  basin  the  amber  torrent  descended, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     157 

Only  a  step  from  the  cottage,  the  road  and  larches  between 
them. 

Hewson  and  Hobbes  followed  quick  upon  Adam ;  on  them 
followed  Arthur. 
Airlie  descended  the  last,  effulgent  as  god  of  Olympus ; 

Blue,  perceptibly  blue,  was  the  coat  that  had  white  silk 
facings, 

Waistcoat  blue,  coral-buttoned,  the  white  tie  finely  ad- 
justed. 

Coral   moreover  the   studs  on  a  shirt  as  of   crochet   of 
women : 

When  the  fourwheel  for  ten  minutes  already  had  stood  at 
the  gateway, 

He,  like  a  god,  came  leaving  his  ample  Olympian  chamber. 
And  in  the  fourwheel  they  drove  to  the  place  of  the 

clansmen's  meeting. 
So  in  the  fourwheel  they  came ;  and  Donald  the  inn- 
keeper showed  them 

Up  to  the  barn  where  the  dinner  should  be.     Four  tables 
were  in  it ; 

Two  at  the  top  and  the  bottom,  a  little  upraised  from  the 
level. 

These  for  Chairman  and  Croupier,  and  gentry  fit  to  be 
with  them. 

Two  lengthways  in  the  midst  for  keeper  and  gillie  and 
peasant. 

Here  were  clansmen  many  in  kilt  and  bonnet  assembled, 

Keepers  a  dozen  at  least ;  the  Marquis's  targeted  gillies ; 

Pipers   five    or   six,   among   them   the  young   one,   the 
drunkard ; 

Many  with  silver  brooches,  and  some  with  those  brilliant 
crystals 

Found  amid  granite-dust  on  the  frosty  scalp  of  the  Cairn- 
Gorm; 

But  with  snuff-boxes  all,  and  all  of  them  using  the  boxes. 

Here  too  were  Catholic  Priest,  and  Established  Minister 
standing : 

Catholic  Priest ;  for  many  still  clung  to  the  Ancient  Wor- 
ship, 

And  Sir  Hector's  father  himself  had  built  them  a  chapel ; 

So  stood  Priest  and  Minister,  near  to  each  other,  but  silent. 

One  to  say  grace  before,  the  other  after  the  dinner. 

Hither  anon  too  came  the  shrewd,  ever  ciphering  Factor, 


158  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Hither  anon  the  Attache,  the  Griiardsman  mute  and  stately, 
Hither  from  lodge  and  bothie  in  all  the  adjoining  shoot- 
ings 
Members  of  Parliament  many,  forgetful  of  votes  and  blue- 
books, 
Here,  amid  heathery  hills,  upon  beast  and  bird  of  the 

forest 
Venting  the  murderous  spleen  of  the  endless  Railway 

Committee. 
Hither  the  Marquis  of  Ayr,  and  Dalgarnish  Earl  and 

Croupier, 
And  at  their  side,  amid  murmurs  of  welcome,  long  looked- 

for,  himself  too 
Eager,  the  grey  but  boy-hearted  Sir  Hector,  the  Chief 

and  the  Chairman. 
Then  was  the  dinner  served,  and  the  Minister  prayed 

for  a  blessing. 
And  to  the  viands  before  them  with  knife  and  with  fork 

they  beset  them : 
Yenison,  the  red  and  the  roe,  with  mutton;  and  grouse 

succeeding ; 
Such  was  the  feast,  with  whisky  of  course,  and  at  top  and 

bottom 
Small  decanters  of  sherry,  not  overchoice,  for  the  gentry. 
So  to  the  viands  before  them  with  laughter  and  chat  they 

beset  them. 
And,  when  on  flesh  and  on  fowl  had  appetite  duly  been 

sated, 
Up  rose  the  Catholic  Priest  and  returned  God  thanks  for 

the  dinner. 
Then  on  all  tables  were  set  black  bottles  of  well-mixed 

toddy. 
And,  with  the  bottles  and  glasses  before  them,  they  sat, 

digesting. 
Talking,  enjoying,  but  chiefly  awaiting  the  toasts  and 

speeches. 

Spare  me,  0  great  Recollection !  for  words  to  the  task 

were  unequal. 
Spare  me,  0   mistress  of  Song!  nor  bid  me  remember 

minutely 
All  that  was  said  and  done  o'er  the  well-mixed  tempting 

toddy ; 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     159 

How   were   healths  proposed  and  drunk  ^with   all  the 

honours/ 
Glasses  and  bonnets  waving,  and  three-times-three  thrice 

over, 
Queen,  and  Prince,  and  Army,  and  Landlords  all,  and 

Keepers ; 
Bid  me  not,   grammar  defying,  repeat   from   grammar- 

defiers 
Long  constructions  strange  and  plusquam-Thucydidean ; 
Tell  how,  as  sudden  torrent   in  time  of  speat^  in  the 

mountain 
Hurries  six  ways  at  once,  and  takes  at  last  to  the  roughest, 
Or  as  the  practised  rider  at  Astley's  or  Franconi's 
Skilfully,  boldly  bestrides  many  steeds   at  once  in  the 

gallop, 
Crossing  from  this  to  that,  with  one  leg  here,  one  yonder, 
So,  less  skilful,  but  equally  bold,  and  wild  as  the  torrent. 
All   through  sentences   six   at  a  time,  unsuspecting  of 

syntax, 
Hurried  the  lively  good-will   and  gatrulous  tale  of  Sir 

Hector. 
Left  to  oblivion  be  it,  the  memory,  faithful  as  ever, 
How  the  Marquis  of  Ayr,  with  wonderful  gesticulation. 
Floundering  on  through  game  and  mess-room  recollections, 
Gossip  of  neighbouring  forest,  praise  of  targeted  gillies. 
Anticipation  of  royal  visit,  skits  at  pedestrians. 
Swore  he  would  never  abandon  his  country,  nor  give  up 

deer-stalking ; 
How,  too,  more  brief,  and  plainer,  in  spite  of  the  Gaelic 

accent. 
Highland  peasants  gave  courteous  answer  to  flattering 

nobles. 
Two  orations  alone  the  memorial  song  will  render ; 
For  at  the  banquet's  close   spake  thus  the  lively  Sir 

Hector. 
Somewhat  husky  with  praises  exuberant,  often  repeated. 
Pleasant  to  him  and  to  them,  of  the  gallant  Highland 

soldiers 
Whom  he  erst  led  in  the  fight ;  —  something  husky,  but 

ready,  though  weary. 
Up  to  them  rose  and  spoke  the  grey  but  gladsome  chief- 
tain :  — 

1  Flood. 


160  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Fill  up  your  glasses,  my  friends,  once  more,  —  With  all 

the  honours ! 
There  was  a  toast  I  forgot,  which  our  gallant  Highland 

homes  have 
Always  welcomed  the  stranger,  delighted,  I  may  say,  to 

see  such 
Fine   young  men   at   my   table  —  My  friends!   are  you 

ready  ?  the  Strangers. 
Gentlemen,  here  are  your  healths,  —  and  I  wish  you  — 

With  all  the  honours  ! 
So  he  said,  and  the  cheers  ensued,  and  all  the  honours. 
All  our  Collegians  were  bowed  to,  the  Attache  detecting 

His  Honour, 
Guardsman  moving  to  Arthur,  and  Marquis  sidling  to 

Airlie, 
And  the  small  Piper  below  getting  up  and  nodding  to 

Lindsay. 
But,  while  the  healths  were  being  drunk,  was  much 

tribulation  and  trouble. 
Nodding  and  beckoning  across,  observed  of  Attache  and 

Guardsman : 
Adam  wouldn't  speak, — indeed  it  was  certain  he  couldn't; 
Hewson  could,  and  would  if  they  wished ;  Philip  Hew- 

son  a  poet, 
Hewson  a  radical  hot,  hating  lords  and  scorning  ladies, 
Silent  mostly,  but  often  reviling  in  fire  and  fury 
Feudal  tenures,  mercantile  lords,  competition  and  bishops. 
Liveries,  armorial   bearings,  amongst  other  matters  the 

Game-laws  : 
He  could  speak,  and  was  asked  to  by  Adam  ;  but  Lindsay 

aloud  cried, 
(Whisky    was   hot   in   his   brain,)  Confound  it,  no,  not 

Hewson, 
Ain't  he  cock-sure  to  bring  in  his  eternal  political  hum- 
bug? 
However,  so  it  must  be,  and  after  due  pause  of  silence, 
Waving  his  hand  to  Lindsay,  and  smiling  oddly  to  Adam, 
Up  to  them  rose  and  spoke  the  poet  and  radical  Hew- 
son: — 
I  am,  I  think,  perhaps  the  most  perfect  stranger  present. 
I  have  not,  as  have  some  of  my  friends,  in  my  veins  some 

tincture, 
Some  few  ounces  of  Scottish  blood ;  no,  nothing  like  it. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     161 

I  am  therefore  perhaps  the  fittest  to  answer  and  thank 

you. 
So  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  myself  and  for  my  companions, 
Heartily  thank  you  all  for  this  unexpected  greeting, 
All  the  more  welcome,  as  showing  you  do  not  account  us 

intruders, 
Are   not  unwilling  to  see  the  north  and  the  south  for- 
gather. 
And,  surely,  seldom  have  Scotch  and  English  more  thor- 
oughly mingled; 
Scarcely  with  warmer  hearts,  and  clearer  feeling  of  man- 
hood. 
Even  in  tourney,  and  foray,  and  fray,  and  regular  battle. 
Where  the  life  and  the  strength  came  out  in  the  tug  and 

tussle. 
Scarcely,  where  man  met  man,  and  soul  encountered  with 

soul,  as  i, 

Close  as  do  the  bodies  and  twining  limbs  of  the  wrestlers. 
When  for  a  final  bout  are  a  day's  two  champions  mated, — 
In  the  grand  old  times  of  bows,  and  bills,  and  claymores, 
At  the  old  Flodden-field  —  or  Bannock  burn  —  or  Culloden. 
—  (And  he  paused  a  moment,  for  breath,  and  because  of 

some  cheering,) 
We  are  the  better  friends,  I  fancy,  for  that  old  fighting. 
Better  friends,  inasmuch  as  we  know  each  other  the  better. 
We  can  now  shake  hands  without  pretending  or  shuffling. 
On  this  passage  followed  a  great  tornado  of  cheering. 
Tables  were   rapped,  feet   stamped,  a  glass  or  two  got 

broken : 
He,  ere  the  cheers  died  wholly  away,  and  while  still  there 

was  stamping. 
Added,  in  altered  voice,  with  a  smile,  his  doubtful  con- 
clusion. 
I  have,  however,  less  claim  than  others  perhaps  to  this 
honour, 
For,  let  me  say,  I  am  neither  game-keeper,  nor  game- 
preserver. 
So  he  said,  and  sat  down,  but  his  satire  had  not  been 
taken. 
Only  the  men,  who  were  all  on  their  legs  as  concerned  in 

the  thanking. 
Were   a  trifle   confused,  but   mostly  sat  down  without 
laughing; 


162  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Lindsay  alone,  close-facing  the  cliair,  shook  his  fist  at  the 

speaker. 
Only  a  Liberal  member,  away  at  the  end  of  the  table. 
Started,  remembering  sadly  the  cry  of  a  coming  election, 
Only  the  Attache  glanced  at  the  Guardsman,  who  twirled 

his  moustachio. 
Only  the  Marquis  faced  round,  but,  not  quite  clear  of  the 

meaning, 
Joined  with  the  joyous  Sir  Hector,  who  lustily  beat  on 

the  table. 
And  soon  after  the  chairman  arose,  and  the  feast  was 

over: 
Now  should  the  barn  be  cleared  and  forthwith  adorned 

for  the  dancing. 
And,  to  make  way  for  this  purpose,  the  Tutor  and  pupils 

retiring 
Were  by  the  chieftain  addre^ed  and  invited  to  come  to 

the  castle. 
But  ere  the  doorway  they  quitted,  a  thin  man  clad  as  the 

Saxon, 
Trouser  and  cap  and  jacket  of  homespun  blue,  hand-woven. 
Singled  out,  and  said  with  determined  accent,  to  Hewson, 
Touching  his  arm:  Young  man,- if  ye  pass  through  the 

Braes  o'  Lochaber, 
See  by  the  loch-side  ye  come  to  the  Bothie  of  Tober-na- 

vuolich. 

n. 

Et  certamen  erat,  Corydon  cum  Thyrside,  magnum. 

Morn,  in  yellow  and  white,  came  broadening  out  from 

the  mountains. 
Long  ere  music  and  reel  were  hushed  in  the  barn  of  the 

dancers. 
Duly  in  matidine  bathed,  before  eight  some  two  of  the 

party. 
Where  in  the  morning  was  custom,  where  over  a  ledge 

of  granite 
Into  a  granite  basin  the  amber  torrent  descended. 
There  two  plunges  each  took  Philip  and  Arthur  together. 
Duly   in   matutine    bathed,   and    read,   and   waited   for 

breakfast : 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     163 

Breakfast   commencing   at  nine,   lingered  lazily  on    to 

noonday. 
Tea  and    coffee   were    there ;    a    jug    of    water    for 

Hewson ; 
Tea  and  coffee ;  and  four  cold  grouse  upon  the  sideboard ; 
Gaily  they  talked,  as   they  sat,  some   late  and  lazy  at 

breakfast, 
Some  professing  a  book,  some  smoking  outside  at  the 

window. 
By  an  aurora  soft-pouring  a  still  sheeny  tide  to  the  zenith, 
Hewson  and  Arthur,  with   Adam,  had  walked   and   got 

home  by  eleven ; 
Hope  and  the  others  had  stayed  till  the  round  sun  lighted 

them  bedward. 
They  of  the   lovely   aurora,   but  these   of  the   lovelier 

women 
Spoke  —  of  noble  ladies  and  rustic  girls,  their  partners. 
Turned  to  them  Hewson,  the  Chartist,  the  poet,  the 

eloquent  speaker. 
Sick  of  the  very  names  of  your  Lady  Augustas  and  Floras 
Am  I,  as  ever  I  was  of  the  dreary  botanical  titles 
Of  the  exotic  plants,  their  antitypes  in  the  hot-house : 
Roses,  violets,  lilies  for  me  !  the  out-of-door  beauties  ; 
Meadow  and  woodland  sweets,  forget-me-nots  and  hearts- 
ease ! 
Pausing  awhile,   he  proceeded   anon,  for  none   made 

answer. 
Oh,  if  our  high-born   girls   knew   only  the   grace,   the 

attraction. 
Labour,   and   labour   alone,   can   add  to  the  beauty   of 

women. 
Truly  the  milliner's  trade  would  quickly,  I  think,  be  at 

discount, 
All  the  waste  and  loss  in  silk  and  satin  be  saved  us, 

Saved  for  purposes  truly  and  widely  productive 

That's  right, 
Take  off  your  coat  to  it,  Philip,  cried  Lindsay,  outside 

in  the  garden. 
Take  off  your  coat  to  it,  Philip. 

Well,  then,  said  Hewson,  resuming ; 
Laugh  if  you  please  at  my  novel  economy ;  listen  to  this, 

though ; 
As  for  myself,  and  apart  from  economy  wholly,  believe  me, 


164  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Never  I   properly  felt   the   relation    between   men   and 

women, 
Though  to  the   dancing-master   I   went  perforce,  for  a 

quarter, 
Where,  in  dismal  quadrille,  were   good-looking   girls  in 

abundance. 
Though,  too,  school-girl  cousins  were  mine  —  a  bevy  of 

beauties  — 
Never  (of  course  you  will  laugh,  but  of  course  all   the 

same  I  shall  say  it), 
Never,  believe  me,  I  knew  of  the  feelings  between  men 

and  women. 
Till  in  some  village  field  in  holidays  now  getting  stupid. 
One  day   sauntering    'long   and   listless,'   as   Tennyson 

has  it, 
Long  and  listless  strolling,  ungainly  in  hobbadiboyhood. 
Chanced  it  my  eye  fell  asijie  on   a  capless,  bonnetless 

maiden. 
Bending  with  three-pronged  fork  in  a  garden  uprooting 

potatoes. 
Was  it  the  air  ?  who  can  say  ?  or  herself,  or  the  charm 

of  the  labour  ? 
But   a  new   thing   was   in   me;   and    longing   delicious 

possessed  me. 
Longing  to  take  her  and  lift  her,  and  put  her  away  from 

her  slaving. 
Was  it  embracing  or  aiding  was  most  in  my  mind  ?  hard 

question ! 
But  a  new  thing  was  in  me ;  I,  too,  was  a  youth  among 

maidens : 
Was  it  the  air  ?   who  can  say !  but   in   part   'twas   the 

charm  of  the  labour. 
Still,  though  a  new  thing  was  in  me,  the  poets  revealed 

themselves  to  me, 
And  in  my  dreams  by  Miranda,  her  Ferdinand,  often  I 

wandered, 
Tliougli  all  the  fuss  about  girls,  the  giggling  and  toying 

and  coying. 
Were  not  so  strange  as  before,  so  incomprehensible  purely; 
Still,  as  before  (and  as  now),  balls,  dances,  and  evening 

parties, 
Shooting  with  bows,  going  shopping  together,  and  hear- 
ing them  singing, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     165 

Dangling  beside   them,  and  turning  the   leaves   on   the 
dreary  piano, 

Offering  unneeded  arms,  performing  dull  farces  of  escort, 

Seemed  like  a  sort  of  unnatural  up-in-the-air  balloon-work 

(Or  what  to  me  is  as  hateful,  a  riding  about  in  a  carriage), 

Utter  removal  from  work,  mother  earth,  and  the  objects 
of  living. 

Hungry  and  fainting  for  food,  you  ask  me  to  join  you  in 
snapping  — 

What  but  a  pink-paper  comfit  with  motto  romantic   in- 
side it  ? 

Wishing  to  stock  me  a  garden,  I'm  sent  to  a  table  of 
nosegays ; 

Better  a  crust  of  black  bread  than  a  mountain  of  paper 
confections. 

Better  a  daisy  in  earth  than  a  dahlia  cut  and  gathered. 

Better  a  cowslip  with  root  than  a  prize  carnation  with- 
out it. 
That  I  allow,  said  Adam. 

But  he,  with  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  scarce 

Breathed  a  brief  moment,  and  hurried  exultingly  on  with 
his  rider, 

Far  over  hillock,  and  runnel,  and  bramble,  away  in  the 
champaign. 

Snorting  defiance  and  force,  the  white  foam  flecking  his 
flanks,  the 

Rein   hanging  loose  to  his   neck,  and  head   projecting 
before  him. 

Oh,  if  they  knew  and  considered,  unhappy  ones !  oh, 

could  they  see,  could 
But  for  a  moment  discern,  how  the  blood  of  true  gallantry 

kindles, 
How  the  old  knightly  religion,  the  chivalry  semi-quixotic 
Stirs  in  the  veins  of  a  man  at  seeing  some  delicate  woman 
Serving  him,  toiling  —  for   him,  and   the  world ;   some 

tenderest  girl,  not 
Over-weighted,   expectant,  of  him,  is  it?  who   shall,  if 

only 
Duly  her  burden  be  lightened,  not  wholly  removed  from 

her,  mind  you. 
Lightened  if  but  by  the  love,  the  devotion  man  only  can 

offer, 


166  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Grand   on   her   pedestal   rise   as   urn-bearing   statue   of 

Hellas ;  — 
Oh,  could  they  feel  at  such  moments  how  man's  heart, 

as  into  Eden 
Carried  anew,  seems  to  see,  like  the  gardener  of  earth 

uncorrupted. 
Eve  from  the  hand  of  her  Maker  advancing,  an  help  meet 

for  him, 
Eve  from  his  own  flesh  taken,  a  spirit  restored  to   his 

Spirit  but  not  spirit  only,  himself  whatever  himself  is, 
Unto  the  mystery's  end  sole  helpmate  meet  to  be  with 

him  ;  — 
Oh,  if  they  saw  it  and  knew  it ;  we  soon  should  see  them 

abandon 
Boudoir,  toilette,  carriage,  drawing-room,  and  ball-room. 
Satin   for   worsted    exchangej   gros-de-na^les   for    plain 

linsey-Avoolsey, 
Sandals  of  silk  for  clogs,  for  health  lackadaisical  fancies ! 
So,  feel  women,  not  dolls ;  so  feel  the  sap  of  existence 
Circulate  up  through  their  roots  from  the  far-away  centre 

of  all  things, 
Circulate  up  from  the  depths  to  the  bud  on  the  twig  that 

is  topmost ! 
Yes,  we  should  see  them  delighted,  delighted  ourselves 

in  the  seeing. 
Bending  with  blue  cotton  gown  skirted  up  over  striped 

linsey-woolsey, 
Milking  the  kine  in  the  field,  like  Kachel,  watering  cattle, 
Rachel,  when  at  the  well  the  predestined  beheld  and 

kissed  her. 
Or,  with  pail  upon  head,  like  Dora  beloved  of  Alexis, 
Comely,  with  Avell-poised  pail  over  neck  arching  soft  to 

the  shoulders. 
Comely  in  gracefulest  act,  one  arm  uplifted  to  stay  it, 
Home  from  the  river  or  pump  moving  stately  and  calm 

to  the  laundry ; 
Ay,  doing  household  work,  which  some  one,  after  all, 

must  do, 
Needful,   graceful  therefore,   as  washing,   cooking,  and 

scouring, 
Or,  if  you  please,  with  the  fork  in  the  garden  uprooting 

potatoes.  — 


THE  BOTHTE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICTI.     167 

Or,  —  high-kilted  perhaps,  cried  Lindsay,  at  last  suc- 
cessful, 

Lindsay  this  long  time  swelling  with  scorn  and  pent-up 
fury, 

Or  high-kilted  perhaps,  as  once  at  Dundee  I  saw  them, 

Petticoats  up  to  the  knees,  or  even,  it  might  he,  above 
them, 

Matching  their  lily-white  legs  with  the  clothes  that  they 
trod  in  the  wash-tub ! 
Laughter  ensued  at   this;   and  seeing   the  Tutor  em- 
barrassed, 

It  was  from  them,  I  suppose,  said  Arthur,  smiling  se- 
dately, 

Lindsay  learnt  the  tune  we  all  have  learnt  from  Lindsay, 

For  oh,  he  ivas  a  roguey,  the  Piper  o'  Dundee. 

Laughter   ensued   again ;    and   the   Tutor,   recovering 
slowly,     -^  •>  ""■  \ 

Said,  Are  not  these  perhaps  as  doubtful  as  other  attrac- 
tions ? 

There  is  a  truth  in   your  view,  but  I   think  extremely 
distorted ; 

Still  there  is  a  truth,  I  own,  I  understand  you  entirely. 
While  the  Tutor  was  gathering  his  purposes,  Arthur 
continued, 

Is  not  all  this  the  same  that  one  hears  at  common-room 
breakfasts. 

Or  perhaps  Trinity  wines,  about  Gothic   buildings  and 
Beauty  ? 
And  with  a  start  from  the  sofa  came  Hobbes  ;  with  a 
cry  from  the  sofa. 

Where    he  was  laid,  the  great  Hobbes,   contemplative, 
.     corpulent,  witty. 

Author  forgotten  and  silent  of  currentest   phrases  and 
fancies. 

Mute  and  exuberant   by  turns,  a  fountain  at  intervals 
playing, 

Mute  and   abstracted,  or  strong  and   abundant   as  rain 
in  the  tropics ; 

Studious ;   careless   of    dress ;   inobservant :    by   smooth 
persuasions 

Lately  decoyed  into  kilt  on  example  of  Hope  and  the 
Piper, 

Hope  an  Antinous  mere,  Hyperion  of  calves  the  Piper. 


168  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Beautiful !    cried    lie   up-leaping,   analogy   perfect   to 

madness ! 
0  inexhaustible  source  of  thought,    shall   I   call   it,  or 

fancy ! 
AVonderf ul   spring,   at   whose   touch '  doors   fly,  what   a 

vista  disclosing !    • 
Exquisite  germ !    Ah  no,  crude  fingers  shall  not  soil  thee ; 
Rest,  lovely  pearl,  in  my  brain,  and   slowly  mature  in 

the  oyster. 
While  at  the  exquisite  pearl  they  were  laughing  and 

corpulent  oyster, 
Ah,  could  they  only  be  taught,  he  resumed,  by  a  Pugin 

of  women. 
How  even  churning  and  washing,  the  dairy,  the  scullery 

duties. 
Wait  but  a  touch  to  redeem  and  convert  them  to  charms 

and  attractions,  /-  "**  '^*^  f^-. 

Scrubbing  requires  for  true  grace  but  frank  and  artistij^3> 

cal  handling,  ^ 

And  the  removal  of  slops  to  be  ornamentally  treated. 
Philip  who  speaks  like  a  book,  (retiring  and  pausing 

he  added,)  .^ 

Philip,   here,  who   speaks  —  like    a    folio  say'st    tliou, 

Piper  ? 
Philip    shall  write  us  a    book,    a  Treatise  upon    The 

Laics  of 
Architectural  Beauty  in  Application  to  Women; 
Illustrations,  of  course,  and  a  Parker's  Glossary  pendent, 
Where  shall  in  specimen  seen  be  the  scuUiony  stumpy- 
columnar 
(Which  to  a  reverent  taste  is  perhaps  the  most  moving 

of  any). 
Rising  to  grace  of  true  woman  in  English  the  Early  and 

Later, 
Charming  us  still  in   fulfilling  the  Richer  and   Loftier 

stages. 
Lost,  ere  we  end,  in  the  Lady-Debased  and  the  Lady- 
Flamboyant  : 
Whence  why  in  satire  and  spite  too  merciless  onward 

pursue  her 
Hitherto  hideous  close,  Modern-Florid,  modern-fine-lady? 
No,   I   will   leave  it   to  you,  my  Philip,   my  Pugin   of 

women. 


THE   BOTIIIE    OF   rOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     169 

Leave  it  to  Arthur,  said  Adam,  to  think  of,  and  not 
to  play  with. 

You  are  young,  you  know,  he  said,  resuming,  to  Philip, 

You  are  young,  he  proceeded,  with  something  of  fervour 
to  Hewson. 

You  are  a  boy;    when  you  grow  to  a  man  you'll   find 
things  alter. 

You  will  then  seek  only  the  good,  will  scorn  the  attrac- 
tive. 

Scorn  all  mere  cosmetics,  as  now  of  rank  and  fashion, 

Delicate  hands,  and  wealth,  so  then  of  poverty  also, 

Poverty  truly  attractive,  more  truly,  I  bear  you  witness. 

Good,  wherever  it's  found,  you  will  choose,  be  it  humble 
or  stately, 

Happy  if  only  you  find,  and  finding  do  not  lose  it. 

Yes,  we  must  seek, what  is  good,  it  always  and  it  only ; 

NTot  indeed  aljSolute  go6'3,  good  for  us,  as  is  said  in  the 

Ethics, 
'.Th'at  which  is  good  for  ourselves,  our  proper  selves,  our 

*      best  selves. 

Ah,  you  have  much  to  learn,  we  can't  know  all  things 
at  twenty. 

Partly  you  rest  on  truth j  old  truth,  the  duty  of  Duty, 

Partly  on  error,  you  long  for  equality. 

Ay,  cried  the  Piper, 

That's  Avhat  it  is,  that  confounded  igalit4,  French  manu- 
facture, 

He  is  the  same  as  the  Chartist  who  spoke  at  a  meeting 
in  Ireland, 

WJiat,  and  is  not  one  man,  fellow-men,  as  good  as  another  ? 

Faith,  replied  Pat,  ajid  a  deal  better-  too ! 

So  rattled  the  Piper : 

But  undisturbed  in  his  tenor,  the  Tutor. 

Partly  in  error 

Seeking  equality.  Is  not  one  woman  as  good  as  another  ? 

I  with  the  Irishman  answer,  Yes,  better  too;  the  poorer 

Better  full  oft  than  richer,  than  loftier  better  the' lower, 

Irrespective  of  wealth  and  of  poverty,  pain  and  enjoy- 
ment, 

Women  all   have   their   duties,  the  one  as  well   as   the 
other ; 

Are  all  duties  alike  ?     Do  all  alike  fulfil  them  ? 

However  noble  the  dream  of  equality,  mark  you,  Philip, 


170  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Nowhere  equality  reigns  in  all  the  world  of  creation, 

Star  is   not   equal   to   star,   nor    blossom   the   same   as 
blossom ; 

Herb   is  not  equal   to  herb,  any  more   than   planet  to 
planet. 

There  is  a  glory  of  daisies,  a  glory  again  of  carnations ; 

Were  the  carnation  wise,  in  gay  parterre  by  greenhouse, 

Should  it   decline   to  accept  the  nurture  the   gardener 
gives  it, 

Should  it  refuse  to  expand  to  sun  and  genial  summer. 

Simply  because  the  field-daisy  that  grows  in  the  grass- 
plat  beside  it, 

Cannot,  for  some  cause  or  other,  develop  and  be  a  car- 
nation ? 

Would  not  the  daisy  itself  petition  its  scrupulous  neigh- 
bour ?  ^^        i^«fc». 

Up,  grow,  bloom,  and  forg^  me;  bebeautiful  eve 
proudness,  .  

E'en  for  the  sake  of  myself  and  other  poor  daisies  Ifke 
me. 

Education  and  manners,   acconr  iits   and^refi,n^- 

ments. 

Waltz,  peradventure,  and  polka,  the  kncwledge  of  music 
and  drawing,  " 

All  these  things  are  Nature's,  to  Nature  dear  and  pre- 
cious, "       \'  ' 

We  have  all  something   to    do,  man,  woman  alike,   I 
own  it; 

We  all  have  something  to  do,   and   in  my  judgment 
should  do  it  ». 

In  our   station;   not  thinking  about   it,  hv^  not   disre- 
garding ; 

Holding  it,  not  for  enjoyment,  but  simiily  because  we 
are  in  it.  ^ 

Ah!   replied  Philip,  alas!   the  noted  phrase  of  the 
Prayer-book, 

Doing  our  duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  God  has  called 
us, 

Seems  to  me  always  to  mean,  when  the  little  rich  boys 
say  it, 

Standing  in  velvet  frock  by  mamma's  brocaded  flounces, 

Eying  her  gold-fastened  book  and  the  watch  and  chain 
at  her  bosom. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     171 

Seems  to  me  always  to  mean,  Eat,  drink,  and  never  mind 

others. 
Nay,  replied  Adam,  smiling,  so  far  your  economy  leads 

me, 
Velvet  and  gold  and  brocade  are  nowise  to  my  fancy. 
Nay,  lie  added,  believe  me,  I  like  luxurious  living 
Even  as  little  as  you,  and  grieve  in  my  soul  not  seldom. 
More  for  the  rich  indeed  than  the  poor,  who  are  not  so 

guilty. 
So  the  discussion  closed;   and,  said  Arthur,  Now  it 

is  my  turn. 
How  will  iny  argument  please  you?     To-morrow  we 

start  on  our  travel. 
And  took  up  Hope  the  chorus, 

To-morrow  we  start  on  our  travel. 
Lo,  the  weather  is  golden,  the  weather-glass,  say  they, 

rising ;  ^  ^ 

Four  weeks  here  have  ^"^^Bread ;   four  weeks  will  we 

read  hereafter;      • 
Three  weeks  hence  will  return  and  think  of  classes  and 

classics. 
Fare  ye  well,  meantime,  forgotten,  unnamed,  undreamt 

Histo^  Science,  and  Poets !  lo,  deep  in  dustiest  cup- 
board, 

Thookydid,  Oloros'  son,  Halimoosian,  here  lieth  buried! 

Slumber   in  Liddell-and-Scott,  0   musical   chaff  of  old 
Athens, 

Dishes,  and  fishes,  bird,  beast,  and  sesquipedalian  black- 
guard ! 

Sleep,  weary  ghosts,  be  at  peace  and  abide  in  your  lexi- 
con-limbdlK^ 

Sleep,  as  in  lam  for  ages  your  Herculanean  kindred. 

Sleep,  for  aught  that  I  care,  'the  sleep  that  knows  no 
waking,'        % 

^schylus,  Sophocles,   Homer,   Herodotus,  Pindar,   and 
Plato. 

Three  weeks   hence   be  it   time  to  exhume  our   dreary 
classics. 
And  in  the  chorus   joined  Lindsay,  the  Piper,   the 
Dialectician, 

Three  weeks  hence  we  return  to  the  shop  and  the  wash- 
hand-stand  basin 


172  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

(These  are  the  Piper's  names  for  the  bathing-place  and 
the  cottage), 

Three  weeks  hence  unbury  Thicksides  and  hairy  Aldrich. 

But    the    Tutor    inquired,    the   grave   man,   nicknamed 
Adam, 

Who  are  they  that  go,  and  when  do  they  promise  return- 
ing? 
And   a  silence   ensued,   and   the   Tutor   himself  con- 
tinued, 

Airlie  remains,  I   presume,   he   continued,  and   Hobbes 
and  Hewson. 
Answer  was  made  him  by  Philip,  the  poet,  the  elo- 
quent speaker : 

Airlie  remains,  I  presume,  was  the  answer,  and  Hobbes, 
peradventure ; 

Tarry  let   Airlie   May-fairly,   and    Hobbes,   brief-kilted 
hero,  ^^ 

Tarry   let   Hobbes   in   kilt,^ftd    Airlie   'abide   in    his 
breeches';  *  ^  ♦- 

Tarry  let   these,  and   read,   four   Pindars   apiece  an'  it 
like  them ! 

Weary  of  reading  am  I,  and  weary  of  walks  prescribed 
us; 

Weary  of  Ethic  and  Logic,  of  Rhetoric  yet  more  weary. 

Eager  to   range  over   heather   unfettered   of   gillie  and 
marquis, 

I  will  away  with  the  rest,  and  bury  my  dismal  classics. 
And  to  the  Tutor  rejoining,  Be  mindful ;  you  go  up 
at  Easter, 

This  was  the  answer  returned  by  Philip,  the  Pugin  of 
women.  _ 

Good  are  the  Ethics  I  wis;  good  abso||flft,  not  for  me, 
though ;  ,  ■r 

Good,  too.  Logic,  of  course;   in  itself^  out  not  in  fine 
weather.  <• 

Three  weeks  hence,  with  the  rain,  to  Prudence,  Tem- 
perance, Justice, 

Virtues  Moral  and  Mental,  with  Latin  prose  included ; 

Three  weeks   hence  we   return   to  cares  of   classes  and 
classics. 

I  will  away  with  the  rest,  and  bury  my  dismal  classics. 
But  the  Tutor  inquired,  the   grave  man,  nicknamed 
Adam, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TODER-NA-VUOLICH.     173 

Where  do  you  mean  to  go,  and  whom  do  you  mean  to  visit  ? 
And  he  was  answered  by  Hope,  the  Viscount,  His  Hon- 
our, of  Hay. 

Kitcat,  a  Trinity  coach,  has  a  party  at  Drumnadrochet, 

Up  on  the  side  of  Loch  Ness,  in  the  beautiful  valley  of 
Urquhart ; 

Mainwariug  says  they  will  lodge  us,  and  feed  us,  and 
give  us  a  lift  too : 

Only  they   talk   ere   long  to   remove   to    Glenmorison. 
Then  at 

Castleton,  high  in  Braemar,  strange  home,  with  his  earli- 
est party, 

Harrison,  fresh  from  the  schools,  has  James  and  Jones 
and  Lauder. 

Thirdly,   a   Cambridge   man  I   know.    Smith,   a   senior 
wrangler. 

With  a  mathematical  sco^^angs-out  at  Inverary. 

Finally,  too,  from  the  ^B  and  the  sofa  said  Hobbes  in 
conclusion. 

Finally,  Philip  must  hunt  for  that  home  of  the  probable 
poacher, 

Hid  in  the  braes  of  Lochaber,  the  Bothie  of  What-did-he- 
call-it. 

Hopeless  of  you  and  of  us,  of  gillies  and  marquises  hope- 
less. 

Weary  of  Ethic  and  Logic,  of  Ehetoric  yet  more  weary, 

There  shall  he,  smit  by  the  charm  of  a  lovely  potato- 
uprooter. 

Study  the  question  of  sex  in  the  Bothie  of  What-did-he- 
ccUlrit. 

III. 

Namque  canehat  uti 

So  in  the  golden  morning  they  parted  and  went  to  the 

westward. 
And  in  the  cottage  with  Airlie  and  Hobbes  remained  the 

Tutor ; 
Eeading  nine  hours  a  day  with  the  Tutor,  Hobbes  and 

Airlie ; 
One  between  bathing  and  breakfast,  and  six  before  it  was 

dinner 
(Breakfast  at  eight,  at  four,  after  bathing  again,  the 

dinner), 


174  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Finally,  two  after  walking  and  tea,  from  nine  to  eleven. 
Airlie  and  Adam  at  evening  their  quiet  stroll  together 
Took  on  the  terrace-road,  with  the  western  hills  before 

them; 
Hobbes,  only  rarely  a  third,  now  and  then  in  the  cottage 

remaining. 
E'en  after  dinner,  eupeptic,  would  rush  yet  again  at  his 

reading ; 
Other  times,  stung  by  the  oestrum  of  some  swift-working 

conception. 
Ranged,  tearing  on  in  his  fury,  an  lo-cow  through  the 

mountains. 
Heedless  of  scenery,  heedless  of  bogs,  and  of  perspira- 
tion. 
On  the  high  peaks,  unwitting,  the  hares  and  ptarmigan 

starting. 
And  the  three  weeks  past,^ie  three  weeks,  three  days 

over,  ^B 

Neither  letter  had  come,  nor  casual  tidings  any. 
And  the  pupils  grumbled,  the  Tutor  became  uneasy, 
And  in  the  golden  weather  they  wondered,  and  watched 

to  the  westward. 
There  is  a  stream  (I  name  not  its  name,  lest  inquisitive 

tourist 
Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  lion,  and  get  it  at  last  into  guide- 
books), 
Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unexplored  in  the  folds  of 

great  mountains, 
Falling  two  miles  through  rowan,  and  stunted  alder,  en- 
veloped 
Then  for  four  more  in  a  forest  of  pine,  where  broad  and 

ample  ♦ 

Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with  heathery  slopes  on 

both  sides : 
Broad  and  fair  the  stream,  with  occasional  falls  and 

narrows ; 
But,  where  tlie  glen  of  its  course  approaches  the  vale  of 

the  river. 
Met  and  blocked  by  a  huge  interposing  mass  of  granite. 
Scarce  by  a  channel   deep-cut,  raging  up,  and  raging 

onward, 
Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage  so  narrow  a  lady  would 

step  it. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   rOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     175 

There,  across  the  great  rocky  wharves,  a  wooden  bridge 
goes, 

Carrying  a  path  to  the  forest ;  below,  three  hundred  yards, 

say, 
Jjower  in  level  some  twenty-five  feet,  through  flats  of 
shingle, 

Stepping-stones  and  a  cart-track  cross  in  the  open  valley. 
But  in  the  interval  here  the  boiling  pent-up  water 

Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  attaining  a  basin. 

Ten  feet  wide  and  eighteen  long,  with  whiteness  and 
fury 

Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid,  pure,  a  mirror ; 

Beautiful  there  for  the  colour  derived  from  green  rocks 
under ; 

Beautiful,  most  of  all,  where  beads  of  foam  uprising 

Mingle  their  clouds  of  white  with  the  delicate  hue  of  the 
stillness,  ^ 

Cliff  over  cliff  for  its  sidffliPwith  rowan  and  pendent  birch 
boughs. 

Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at  the  bridge  and  path- 
way, 

Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by  wood  and  rocky  pro- 
jection. 

You  are  shut  in,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  perfection 
of  water. 

Hid  on  all  sides,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  the  goddess 
of  bathing. 
Here,  the  pride  of  the  plunger,  you  stride  the  fall  and 
clear  it ; 

Here,  the  delight  of  the  bather,  you  roll  in  beaded  spark- 
lings. 

Here  into  pure  green  depth  drop  down  from  lofty  ledges. 
Hither,  a  month  agone,  they  had  come,  and  discovered 
it;  hither 

(Long  a  design,  but  long  unaccountably  left  unaccom- 
plished). 

Leaving  the  well-known  bridge  and  pathway  above  to  the 
forest. 

Turning  below  from  the  track  of  the  carts  over  stone  and 
shingle. 

Piercing   a  wood,  and   skirting   a  narrow   and   natural 
causeway 

Under  the  rocky  wall  that  hedges  the  bed  of  the  streamlet, 


176  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Rounded  a  craggy  point,  and  saw  on  a  sudden  before 

them 
Slabs  of  rock,  and  a  tiny  beach,  and  perfection  of  water. 
Picture-like  beauty,  seclusion  sublime,  and  the  goddess 

of  bathing. 
There  they  bathed,  of  course,  and  Arthur,  the  Glory  of 

headers, 
Leapt  from  the  ledges  Avith  Hope,  he  twenty  feet,  he 

thirty ; 
There,  overbold,  great  Hobbes  from  a  ten-foot   height 

descended. 
Prone,  as  a  quadruped,  prone  with  hands  and  feet  pro- 
tending ; 
There  in  the  sparkling  champagne,  ecstatic,  they  shrieked 

and  shouted. 
'  Hobbes's  gutter '  the  Piper  entitles  the  spot,  profanely, 
Hope  *  the  Glory '  would  have,  after  Arthur,  the  Glory  of 

headers :  C^" 

But,  for  before  they  departed,  in  shy  and  fugitive  reflex. 
Here  in  the  eddies  and  there  did  the  splendour  of  Jupiter 

glimmer ; 
Adam  adjudged  it  the  name  of  Hesperus,  star  of  the 

evening. 
Hither,  to  Hesperus,  now,  the  star  of  evening  above 

them, 
Come  in  their  lonelier  walk  the  pupils  twain  and  Tutor ; 
Turned  from  the  track  of  the  carts,  and  passing  the  stone 

and  shingle. 
Piercing  the  wood,  and  skirting  the  stream  by  the  natural 

causeway. 
Rounded  the  craggy  point,  and  now  at  their  ease  looked 

up;  and 
Lo,  on  the  rocky  ledge,  regardant,  the  Glory  of  headers, 
Lo,  on  the  beach,  expecting  the  plunge,  not  cigarless,  the 

Piper,  — 
And  they  looked,  and  wondered,  incredulous,  looking 

yet  once  more. 
Yes,  it  was  he,  on  the  ledge,  bare-limbed,  an   Apollo, 

down-gazing. 
Eying  one  moment  the  beauty,  the  life,  ere  he  flung 

himself  in  it. 
Eying  through  eddying   green  waters   the   green-tinted 

floor  underneath  them, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     177 

Eying  the  bead  on  the  surface,  the  bead,  like  a  cloud 

rising  to  it, 
Drinking-in,  deep  in  his  soul,  the  beautiful  hue  and  the 

clearness, 
Arthur,  the  shapely,  the  brave,  the  unboasting,  the  Glory 

of  headers ; 
Yes,' and  with  fragrant  weed,  by  his  knapsack,  spectator 

and  critic, 
Seated  on  slab  by  the  margin,  the  Piper,  the  Cloud-com- 
peller. 
Yes,  they  were  come ;  were  restored  to  the  party,  its 

grace  and  its  gladness. 
Yes,  were  here,  as  of  old;  the  light-giving  orb  of  the 

household, 
Arthur,  the  shapely,  the  tranquil,  the  strength-and-con- 

tentment  dilfusing. 
In  the  pure  presence  of  wJ^ora  none  could  quarrel  long, 

nor  be  pettish. 
And,  the  gay  fountain  of  mirth,  their  dearly  beloved  of 

Pipers ; 
Yes,  they  Avere  come,  were  here :  but  Hewson  and  Hope 

—  where  they  then  ? 
Are  they  behind,  travel-sore,  or  ahead,  going  straight,  by 

the  pathway  ? 
And  from  his   seat  and  cigar   spoke  the  Piper,  the 

Cloud-compeller. 
Hope  with  the  uncle  abideth  for  shooting.     Ah  me,  were 

I  with  him ! 
Ah,  good  boy  that  I  am,  to  have  stuck  to  my  word  and 

my  reading ! 
Good,  good  boy  to  be  here,  far  away,  who  might  be  at 

Balloch ! 
Only  one  day  to  have  stayed  who  might  have  been  wel- 
come for  seven. 
Seven   whole   days   in  castle   and   forest  —  gay   in    the 

mazy. 
Moving,  imbibing  the  rosy,  and  pointing  a  gun  at  the 

horny  ! 
And  the  Tutor,  impatient,  expectant,  interrupted. 
Hope  with  the  uncle,  and  Hewson  —  with  him  ?  or  where 

have  you  left  him  ? 
And  from  his  seat  and  cigar  spoke  the  Piper,  the  Cloud- 
compeller. 


178  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Hope  with  the  uncle,  and  Hewson  —  Why,  Hewson  we 
left  in  liannoch, 

By  the  lochside  and  the  pines,  in  a  farmer's  house,  — 
reflecting  — 

Helping  to  shear,^  and  dry  clothes,  and  bring  in  peat  from 
the  peat-stack. 
And  the  Tutor's  countenance  fell;    perplexed,  dumb- 
foundered 

Stood  he,  —  slow  and  with  pain  disengaging  jest  from 
earnest. 
He  is  not  far  from  home,  said  Arthur  from  the  water. 

He  will  be  with  us  to-morrow,  at  latest,  or  the  next  day. 
And  he  was  even  more  reassured  by  the  Piper's  re- 
joinder. 

Can  he  have  come  by  the  mail,  and  have  got  to  the  cot- 
tage before  us  ? 
So  to  the  cottage  they  Avent^  and  Philip  was  not  at  the 
cottage ; 

But  by  the  mail  was  a  letter  from  Hope,  who  himself  was 
to  follow. 
Two  whole   days  and  nights  succeeding  brought  not 
Philip, 

Two  whole  days  and  nights  exhausted  not  question  and 
story. 
For  it  was  told,   the  Piper  narrating,  corrected  of 
Arthur, 

Often  by  word  corrected,  more  often  by  smile  and  motion. 

How  they  had  been  to  lona,  to  Staffa,  to  Skye,  to  Cul- 
loden. 

Seen  Loch  Awe,  Loch  Tay,  Loch  Fyne,  Loch  Ness,  Loch 
Arkaig, 

Been  up  Ben-nevis,  Ben-more,  Ben-cruachan,  Ben-muick- 
dhui ; 

How  they  had  walked,  and  eaten,  and  drunken,  and  slept 
in  kitchens, 

Slept  upon  floors  of  kitchens,  and  tasted  the  real  Glenlivat, 

Walked  up  perpendicular  hills,  and  also  down  them, 

Hither  and  thither  had  been,  and  this  and  that  had  wit- 
nessed, 

Left  not  a  thing  to  be  done,  and  had  not  a  copper  re- 
maining. 
For  it  was  told  withal,  he  telling,  and  he  correcting, 
^Reap. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     179 

How  in  the  race  they  had  run,  and  beaten  the  gillies  of 

Rannoch, 
How  in  forbidden  glens,  in  Mar  and  midmost  Athol, 
Philip  insisting  hotly,  and  Arthur  and  Hope  compliant, 
They  had  defied  the  keepers ;  the  Piper  alone  protesting. 
Liking  the  fun,  it  was  plain,  in  his  heart,  but  tender  of 

game-law ; 
Yea,  too,  in  Mealy  glen,  the  heart  of  Lochiel's  fair  forest, 
Where  Scotch  firs  are  darkest  and  amplest,  and  inter- 
mingle 
Grandly  with  rowan  and  ash  —  in  Mar  you  have  no  ashes. 
There  the  pine  is  alone,  or  relieved  by  the  birch  and  the 

alder  — 
How  in  Mealy  glen,  while  stags  were  starting  before,  they 
Made  the  watcher  believe  they  were  guests  from  Aclma- 
carry. 
And  there  was  told  moreover,  he  telling,  the  other  cor- 
recting, 
Often  by  word,  more  often  by  mute  significant  motion. 
Much  of  the  Cambridge  coach  and  his  pupils  at  Inverary, 
Huge  barbarian  piipils,  Expanded  in  Infinite  Series, 
Firing-off  signal  guns  (great  scandal)   from   window  to 

window 
(For  they  were  lodging  perforce  in  distant  and  numerous 

houses). 
Signals,  when,  one  retiring,  another   should  go    to  the 

Tutor  :  — 
Much  too  of  Kitcat,  of  course,  and  the  party  at  Drum- 

nadrochet, 
Mainwaring,  Foley,  and  Fraser,  their  idleness  horrid  and 

dog-cart ; 
Drumnadrochet  was  seedy,  Glenmorison  adequate,  but  at 
Castleton,  high  in  Braemar,  were  the  clippingest  places  for 

bathing ; 
One  by  the  bridge  in  the  village,  indecent,  the  Town  Hall 

christened. 
Where  had  Lauder  howbeit  been  bathing,  and  Harrison 

also, 
Harrison  even,  the  Tutor ;  another  like  Hesperus  here, 

and 
Up  the  water  of  Eye,  half-a-dozen  at  least,  all  stunners. 
And  it  was  told,  the  Piper  narrating  and  Arthur  cor- 
recting, 


180  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Colouring  he,  dilating,  magniloquent,  glorying  in  picture, 
He  to  a  matter-of-fact  still  softening,  paring,  abating. 
He  to  the  great  might-have-been  upsoaring,  sublime  and 

ideal, 
He  to  the  merest  it-was  restricting,  diminishing,  dwarf- 
ing, 
River  to  streamlet  reducing,  and  fall  to  slope  subduing : 
So  was  it  told,  the  Piper  narrating,  corrected  of  Arthur, 
How  under  Linn  of  Dee,  where  over  rocks,  between  rocks, 
Freed   from   prison   the   river   comes,   pouring,   rolling, 

rushing, 
Then  at  a  sudden  descent  goes  sliding,  gliding,  unbroken, 
Falling,  sliding,  gliding,  in  narrow  space  collected. 
Save  for  a  ripple  at  last,  a  sheeted  descent  unbroken,  — 
How  to  the  element  offering  their  bodies,  downshooting 

the  fall,  they 
Mingled  themselves  with  the  flood  and  the  force  of  im- 
perious water. 
And  it  was  told  too,  Arthur  narrating,  the  Piper  cor- 
recting. 
How,  as  one  comes  to  the  level,  the  weight  of  the  down- 
ward impulse 
Carries  the  head  under  water,  delightful,  unspeakable ; 

how  the 
Piper,  here  ducked  and  blinded,  got  stray,  and  borne-off 

by  the  current 
Wounded  his  lily-white  thighs,   below,   at  the  craggy 
corner. 
And  it  was  told,  the  Piper  resuming,  corrected  of 
Arthur, 
More  by  word  than  motion,  change  ominous,  noted  of 

Adam, 
How  at  the  floating-bridge  of  Laggan,  one  morning  at 

sunrise. 
Came,  in  default  of  the  ferryman,  out  of  her  bed  a  brave 

lassie  ; 
And  as  Philip  and  she  together  were  turning  the  handles. 
Winding  the  chain  by  which  the  boat  works  over  the 

water 
Hands  intermingled  with  hands,  and  at  last,  as  they 

stepped  from  the  boatie. 
Turning  about,  they  saw  lips  also  mingle  with  lips;  but 
That  was  flatly  denied  and  loudly  exclaimed  at  by  Arthur : 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     181 

How  at  the  General's  hut,  the  Inn  by  the  Foyers  Fall, 

where 
Over  the  loch  looks  at  you  the  summit  of   Mealfour- 

vdnie. 
How  here  too  he  was  hunted  at  morning,  and  found  in 

the  kitchen 
Watching  the   porridge  being  made,  pronouncing  them 

smoked  for  certain. 
Watching  the  porridge  being  made,  and  asking  the  lassie 

that  made  them 
What  was  the  Gaelic  for  girl,  and  what  was  the  Gaelic 

for  pretty  ; 
How  in  confusion  he  shouldered  his  knapsack,  yet  blush- 

ingly  stammered. 
Waving  a  hand  to  the  lassie,  that  blushingly  bent  o'er 

the  porridge,  * 

Something   outlandish  —  ASZaw-something,    Slan  leat,   he 

believed,  Caleg  Looacli  — 
That  was  the  Gaelic,  it  seemed,  for  '  I  bid  you  good-bye, 

bonnie  lassie ; ' 
Arthur  admitted  it  true,  not  of  Philip,  b\it  of  the  Piper. 
And  it  was  told  by  the  Piper,  while  Arthur  looked  out 

at  the  window, 
How  in  thunder  and  in  rain  —  it  is  wetter  far  to  the 

westward  — 
Thunder  and  rain  and  wind,  losing  heart  and  road,  they 

were  welcomed, 
Welcomed,  and  three  days  detained  at  a  farm  by  the 

lochside  of  Eannoch ; 
How  in  the  three  days'  detention  was  Philip  observed  to 

be  smitten. 
Smitten  by  golden-haired  Katie,  the  youngest  and  come- 

liest  daughter ; 
Was  he  not  seen,  even  Arthur  observed  it,  from  breakfast 

to  bedtime. 
Following  her  motions  with  eyes  ever  brightening,  soft- 
ening ever  ? 
Did  he  not  fume,  fret,  and  fidget  to  find  her  stand  waiting 

at  table  ? 
Was  he  not  one  mere  St.  Vitus'  dance,  when  he  saw  her 

at  nightfall 
Go  through  the  rain  to  fetch  peat,  through  beating  rain 

to  the  peat-stack  ? 


182  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

How  too  a  dance,  as  it  happened,  was  given  by  Grant  of 

Glenurchie, 
And  with  the  farmer  they  went  as  the  farmer's  guests  to 

attend  it; 
Philip  stayed  dancing  till  daylight,  —  and  evermore  with 

Katie ; 
How  the  whole  next  afternoon  he  was  with  her  away  in 

the  shearing,^ 
And  the  next  morning  ensuing  was  found  in  the  ingle 

beside  her 
Kneeling,  picking  the  peats  from  her  apron,  —  blowing 

together, 
Both,  between  laughing,  with  lips  distended,  to  kindle 

the  embers; 
Lips  were  so  near  to  lips,  one  living  cheek  to  another,  — 
Though,  it  was   true,  he  was  shy,   very   shy,  —  yet  it 

wasn't  in  nature. 
Wasn't  in  nature,  the  Piper  averred,  there  shouldn't  be 

kissing ; 
So  when  at  noon  they  had  packed  up  the  things,  and  pro- 
posed to  be  starting, 
Philip  professed  he  was  lame,  would  leave  in  the  morning 

and  follow  ; 
Follow  he  did  not ;   do  burns,  when  you  go  up  a  glen, 

follow  after  ? 
Follow,  he  did  not,  nor  left;  do  needles  leave  the  loadstone  ? 
Nay,  they  had  turned  after  starting,  and  looked  through 

the  trees  at  the  corner, 
Lo,  on  the  rocks  by  the  lake  there  he  was,  the   lassie 

beside  him, 
Lo,  there  he  was,  stooping  by  her,   and   helping   with 

stones  from  the  water 
Safe  in  the  wind  to  keep  down  the  clothes  she  would 

spread  for  the  drying. 
There  they  had  left  him,  and  there,  if  Katie  was  there, 

was  Philip, 
There  drying  clothes,  making  fires,  making  love,  getting 

on  too  by  this  time, 
Though  he  was  shy,  so  exceedingly  shy. 

You  may  say  so,  said  Arthur, 
For  the  first  time  they  had  known  with  a  peevish  intona- 
tion, — 

1  Reaping. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLTCH.     183 

Did  not  the  Piper  himself  flirt  more  in  a  single  evening, 
Namely,  with  Janet  the   elder,  than  Philip  in  all  our 

sojourn  ? 
Philip  had  stayed,  it  was  true;  the  Piper  was  loth  to 

depart,  too, 
Harder  his  parting  from  Janet  than  e'en  from  the  keeper 

at  Balloch ; 
And  it  was  certain  that  Philip  was  lame. 

Yes,  in  his  excuses, 
Answered  the  Piper,  indeed !  — 

But  tell  me,  said  Hobbes,  interposing. 
Did  you  not  say  she  was  seen  every  day  in  her  beauty 

and  bedgOAvn 
Doing    plain    household    work,    as    washing,    cooking, 

scouring  ? 
How  could  he  help  but  love  her  ?  nor  lacked  there  perhaps 

the  attraction 
That,  in  a  blue  cotton  print  tucked  up  over  striped  linsey- 
woolsey, 
Barefoot,  barelegged,  he  beheld  her,  with  arms  bare  up  to 

the  elbows, 
Bending  with  fork  in  her  hand  in  a  garden  uprooting 

potatoes  ? 
Is  not  Katie  as  Rachel,  and  is  not  Philip  a  Jacob  ? 
Truly  Jacob,  supplanting  a  hairy  Highland  Esau  ? 
Shall  he  not,  love-entertained,  feed  sheep  for  the  Laban 

of  Rannoch  ? 
Patriarch  happier  he,  the  long  servitude  ended  of  woo- 
ing. 
If  when  he  wake  in  the  morning  he  find  not  a  Leah  beside 

him! 
But  the  Tutor  inquired,  who  had  bit  his  lip  to  bleeding. 
How  far  off  is  the  place?  who  will  guide  me  thither 

to-morrow  ? 

But  by  the  mail,  ere  the  morrow,  came  Hope,  and 
brought  new  tidings. 
Round  by  Rannoch  had  come,  and  Philip  was  not  at 

Rannoch ; 
He  had  left  at  noon,  an  hour  ago. 

With  the  lassie  ? 
With  her  ?    the   Piper   exclaimed.     Undoubtedly !      By 
great  Jingo ! 


184  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  upon  that  he  arose,  slapping  both  his  thighs  like  a 

hero, 
Partly  for  emphasis  only,  to  mark  his  conviction,  but  also 
Part  in  delight  at  the  fun,  and  the  joy  of  eventful  living. 
Hope   couldn't   tell   him,   of    course,   but   thought   it 

improbable  wholly ; 
Janet,  the  Piper's  friend,  he  had  seen,  and  she  didn't  say 

so, 
Though  she  asked  a  good  deal  about  Philip,  and  where  he 

was  gone  to  : 
One  odd  thing,  by  the  bye,  he  continued,  befell  me  while 

with  her; 
Standing  beside  her,  I  saw  a  girl  pass  ;  I  thought  I  had 

seen  her. 
Somewhat    remarkable-looking,    elsewhere;    and    asked 

what  her  name  was ; 
Elspie  Mackaye,  was  the  answer,  the  daughter  of  David ! 

she's  stopping 
Just  above  here,  with  her  uncle.     And  David  Mackaye, 

where  lives  he  ? 
It's  away  west,  she  said ;  they  call  it  Tober-na-vuolich. 

IV. 

Ut  vidi,  ut  peril,  ut  me  malus  ahstulit  error. 

So   in  the   golden   weather  they   waited.       But  Philip 

returned  not. 
Sunday  six  days  thence  a  letter  arrived  in  his  writing.  — 
But,  0  Muse,  that  encompassest  Earth  like  the  ambient 

ether, 
Swifter  than   steamer   or   railway   or   magical    missive 

electric. 
Belting  like  Ariel  the  sphere  with  the  star-like  trail  of 

thy  travel. 
Thou  witli  thy  Poet,  to  mortals  mere  post-office  second- 
hand knowledge 
Leaving,  wilt  seek   in   the   moorland   of    Rannoch   the 

wandering  hero. 
There  is  it,  there,  or  in  lofty  Lochaber,  where,  silent 

upheaving. 
Heaving  from  ocean  to  sky,  and  under  snow-winds  of 

September, 


« 
THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICII.     185 

Visibly  whitening  at  morn   to   darken   by   noon  in  the 

shining, 
Rise  on  their  mighty  foundations  the  brethren  huge  of 

Ben-nevis  ? 
There,  or  westward  away,  where  roads  are  unknown  to 

Loch  Nevish, 
And    the    great   peaks    look    abroad   over  Skye  to  the 

westernmost  islands  ? 
There  is  it  ?  there  ?  or  there  ?  we  shall  find  our  wander- 
ing hero  ? 
Here,  in  Badenoch,  here,  in  Lochaber  anon,  in  Lochiel, 

in 
Knoydart,   Moydart,    Morrer,    Ardgower,    and    Ardna- 

murchan. 
Here  I  see  him  and  here :  I  see  him ;  anon  I  lose  him ! 
Even  as  cloud  passing  subtly  unseen  from  mountain  to 

mountain. 
Leaving  the  crest  of  Ben-more  to  be  palpable  next  on 

Ben-vohrlich, 
Or  like  to  hawk  of  the  hill  which  ranges  and  soars  in  its 

hunting, 
Seen  and  unseen  by  turns,  now  here,.now  in  ether  eludent. 
Wherefore,  as  cloud  of  Ben-more  or  hawk  over-ranging 

the  mountains. 
Wherefore  in  Badenoch  drear,  in  lofty  Lochaber,  Lochiel, 

and 
Knoydart,  '  Moydart,    Morrer,    Ardgower,   and    Ardna- 

murchan, 
Wandereth  he  who  should  either  with  Adam  be  studying 

logic. 
Or  by  the  lochside  of  Rannoch  on  Katie   his   rhetoric 

using ; 
He  who,  his  three  weeks  past,  past  now  long  ago,  to  the 

cottage 
Punctual  promised  return  to  cares  of  classes  and  classics. 
He  who,  smit  to  the  heart  by  that  youngest  comeliest 

daughter. 
Bent,  unregardful  of  spies,  at  her  feet,  spreading  clothes 

from  her  wash-tub  ? 
Can  it  be  with  him  through  Badenoch,  Morrer,  and  Ard- 

namurchan ; 
Can  it  be  with  him  he  beareth  the  golden-haired  lassie  of 

B-anuoch  ? 


186  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

This   fierce,   furious   walking  —  o'er    mountain-top    and 

moorland, 
Sleeping  in  shieling  and  bothie,  with  drover  on  hill-side 

sleeping, 
Folded  in  plaid,  where  sheep  are   strewn  thicker  than 

rocks  by  Loch  Awen, 
This  fierce,  furious  travel  unwearying — cannot  in  truth  be 
Merely  the  wedding  tour  succeeding  the  week  of  wooing ! 
No,  wherever  be  Katie,  with  Philip  she  is  not ;  I  see 

him, 
Lo,  and  he  sitteth  alone,  and  these  are  his  words  in  the 

mountain. 
Spirits  escaped  from  the  body  can  enter  and  be  with 

the  living ; 
Entering  unseen,  and  retiring  unquestioned,  they  bring, 

—  do  they  feel  too  ?  — 
Joy,  pure  joy,  as  they  mingle  and  mix  inner  essence  with 

essence ; 
Would  I  were  dead,  I  keep  saying,  that  so  I  could  go  and 

uphold  her ! 
Joy,  pure  joy,  bringing  with  them,  and,  when  they  retire, 

leaving  after 
No  cruel  shame,  no  prostration,  despondency ;  memories 

rather. 
Sweet  happy  hopes   bequeathing.     Ah !  wherefore  not 

thus  with  the  living  ? 
Would  I  were  dead,  I  keep  saying,  that  so  I  could  go  and 

uphold  her ! 
Is  it  impossible,  say  you,  these  passionate  fervent  im- 
pulsions. 
These  projections  of  spirit  to  spirit,  these  inward  embraces. 
Should  in  strange  ways,  in  her  dreams,  should  visit  her, 

strengthen  her,  shield  her  ? 
Is  it  possible,  rather,  that  these  great  floods  of  feeling 
Setting-iu  daily  from  me  towards  her  should,  impotent 

wholly, 
Bring  neither  sound  nor  motion  to  that  sweet  shore  they 

heave  to  ? 
Efflux  here,  and  there  no  stir  nor  pulse  of  influx ! 
Would  I  were  dead,  I  keep  saying,  that  so  I  could  g©  and 

uphold  her ! 
Surely,  surely,  when  sleepless  I  lie  in  the  mountain 

lamenting, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     187 

Surely,  surely,  she  hears  in  her  dreams  a  voice,  'I  am 

with  thee,' 
Saying,  '  although  not  with  thee ;  behold,  for  we  mated 

our  spirits 
Then,  when  we  stood  in  the  chamber,  and  knew  not  the 

words  we  were  saying  ; ' 
Yea,  if  she  felt  me  within  her,  when  not  with  one  finger 

I  touched  her, 
Surely  she  knows  it,  and  feels  it  while  sorrowing  here  in 

the  moorland. 
Would  I  were  dead,  I  keep  saying,  that  so  I  could  go 

and  uphold  her ! 
Spirits  with  spirits  commingle  and  separate;  lightly 

as  winds  do, 
Spice-laden   South   with   the   ocean-born    zephyr!    they 

mingle  and  sunder; 
No  sad  remorses  for  them,  no  visions  of  horror  and  vileness. 
Would  I  were  dead,  I  keep  saying,  that  so  I  could  go  and 

uphold  her ! 
Surely  the  force  that  here   sweeps   me   along  in  its 

violent  impulse, 
Surely  my  strength  shall  be  in  her,  my  help  and  protec- 
tion about  her. 
Surely  in  inner-sweet  gladness  and  vigour  of  joy  shall 

sustain  her. 
Till,  the  brief  winter  o'er-past,  her  own  true  sap  in  the 

springtide 
Rise,  and  the  tree   I  have  bared  be  verdurous  e'en   as 

aforetime ! 
Surely  it  may  be,  it  should  be,  it  must  be.     Yet  ever  and 

ever, 
Would  I  were  dead,  I  keep  saying,  that  so  I  could  go 

and  uphold  her ! 
No,  wherever  be  Katie,  with  Philip  she  is  not :  behold, 

for 
Here  he  is  sitting  alone,  and  these  are  his  words  in  the 

mountain. 
And,   at  the   farm   on   the   lochside   of  Eannoch,   in 

parlour  and  kitchen, 
Hark !  there  is  music  —  the  flowing  of  music,  of  milk, 

and  of  whisky ; 
Lo,  I  see  piping  and  dancing !  and  whom  in  the  midst  of 

the  battle 


188  CLOUGH'S   POEMS. 

t 

Cantering  loudly  along  there,  or,  look   yon,  with   arras 

uplifted. 
Whistling,  and  snapping  his  fingers,  and  seizing  his  gay- 
smiling  Janet, 
Whom  ?  —  whom   else   but   the  Piper  ?    the   wary   pre- 

cognisant  Piper, 
Who,  for  the  love   of   gay  Janet,  and   mindful   of   old 

invitation. 
Putting  it  quite  as  a  duty  and  urging  grave  claims   to 

attention, 
True  to  his  night  had   crossed  over:    there   goeth   he, 

brimful  of  music. 
Like  a  cork  tossed  by  the  eddies  that  foam  under  furious 

lasher. 
Like  to  skiff,  lifted,  uplifted,  in  lock,  by  the  swift-swell- 
ing sluices. 
So  with  the  music  possessing  him,  swaying  him,  goeth 

he,  look  you. 
Swinging  and  flinging,  and  stamping  and  tramping,  and 

grasping  and  clasping 
Whom  but  gay  Janet? — Him  rivalling,  Hobbes,  brief- 
est-kilted of  heroes. 
Enters,  0  stoutest,  0  rashest  of  creatures,  mere  fool  of 

a  Saxon, 
Skill-less  of  philabeg,  skill-less  of  reel  too,  —  the  whirl 

and  the  twirl  o't : 
Him  see  I  frisking,  and  whisking,  and  ever  at  swifter 

gyration 
Under  brief  curtain  revealing  broad  acres  —  not  of  broad 

cloth. 
Him  see  I  there  and  the  Piper  —  the  Piper  what  vision 

beholds  not  ? 
Him  and  His  Honour  with  Arthur,  with  Janet  our  Piper, 

and  is  it. 
Is  it,  0  marvel  of  marvels  !  he  too  in  the  maze  of  the  mazy. 
Skipping,  and  tripping,  thougii  stately,  though  languid, 

with  head  on  one  shoulder, 
Airlie,   with  sight  of  the  waistcoat  the  golden-haired 

Katie  consoling? 
Katie,  who  simple  and  comely,  and  smiling  and  blushing 

as  ever. 
What  though   she  wear  on  that  neck  a  blue  kerchief 

remembered  as  Philip's, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     189 

Seems  in  her  maidenly  freedom  to  need  small  console- 

ment  of  waistcoats  !  — ■ 
Wherefore  in  Badenoch  then,  far-away,  in  Lochaber, 

Lochiel,  in 
Knoydart,  Moydart,  Morrer,  Ardgower,   or   Ardnamur- 

chan, 
Wanders   o'er   mountain  and  moorland,  in   shieling   or 

bothie  is  sleeping, 
He  who,  —  and  why  should  he  not  then  ?   capricious  ? 

or  is  it  rejected  ? 
Might  to  the  piping  of  Rannoch  be  pressing  the  thrilling 

fair  fingers, 
Might,  as   he   clasped  her,  transmit  to  her  bosom  the 

throb  of  his  own  —  yea,  — 
Might  in  the  joy  of  the  reel  be  wooing  and  winning  his 

Katie  ? 
What  is   it   Adam   reads   far  off  by  himself   in  the 

cottage  ? 
Reads  yet   again  with   emotion,  again  is  preparing  to 

answer  ? 
What  is  it  Adam  is  reading  ?     What  was  it  Philip  had 

written  ? 
There  was  it  writ,  how  Philip  possessed  undoubtedly 

had  been, 
Deeply,  entirely  possessed  by  the  charm  of  the  maiden 

of  Rannoch ; 
Deeply  as  never  before !  how  sweet  and  bewitching  he 

felt  her 
Seen  still  before  him  at  work,  in  the  garden,  the  byre, 

the  kitchen; 
How  it  was  beautiful  to  him  to  stoop  at  her  side  in  the 

shearing. 
Binding  nncouthly  the  ears  that  fell  from  her  dexterous 

sickle, 
Building  uncouthly  the  stocks,^  which  she  laid  by  her 

sickle  to  straighten, 
How  at  the  dance  he  had  broken  through  shyness;  for 

four  days  after 
Lived  on  her  eyes,  imspeaking  what  lacked  not  articu- 
late speaking; 
Felt  too  that  she  too  was  feeling  what  he  did.  —  How- 

beit  they  parted ! 

1  Shocks. 


190  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

How  by  a  kiss  from  her  lips  he  had  seemed  made  nobler 

and  stronger, 
Yea,  for  the  first  time  in  life  a  man  complete  and  perfect. 
So  forth !  mnch  that  before  has  been  heard  of.  —  How- 

beit  they  parted! 
What  had  ended  it  all,  he  said,  was  singular,  very.  — 
I  was  walking  along  some  two  miles  off  from  the  cottage, 
Full  of  my  dreamings  —  a  girl  went  by  in  a  party  with 

others ; 
She  had  a  cloak  on,  was  stepping  on  quickly,  for  rain 

was  beginning; 
But  as  she  passed,  from  her  hood  I  saw  her  eyes  look 

.  at  me. 
So  quick  a  glance,  so  regardless  I,  that  although  I  had 

felt  it. 
You  couldn't  properly  say  our  eyes  met.      She  cast  it, 

and  left  it: 
It  was  three  minutes  perhaps  ere  I  knew  what  it  was. 

I  had  seen  her 
Somewhere  before  I  am  sure,  but  that  wasn't  it ;  not  its 

import : 
No,  it  had  seemed  to  regard  me  with  simple  superior 

insight. 
Quietly  saying  to  itself  —  Yes,  there  he  is  still  in  his 

fancy. 
Letting  drop  from  him  at  random  as  things  not  worth 

his  considering 
All  the  benefits  gathered  and  put  in  his  hands  by  fortune, 
Loosing  a  hold  which  others,  contented  and  unambitious. 
Trying  down  here  to  keep  up,  know  the  value  of  better 

than  he  does. 
What  is  this  ?  was  it  perhaps  ?  —  Yes,  there  he  is  still 

in  his  fancy. 
Doesn't  yet  see  we  have  here  just  the  things  he  is  used 

to  elsewhere ; 
People  here  too  are  people  and  not  as  fairy-land  crea- 
tures ; 
He  is  in  a  trance,  and  possessed ;  I  wonder  how  long  to 

continue ; 
It  is  a  shame  and  a  pity  —  and    no  good  likely  to 

follow.  — 
Something   like   this,  but   indeed   I   cannot  attempt  to 

define  it. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     191 

Only,  three  hours  thence   I  was  off   and  away  in  the 

moorland, 
Hiding  myself  from  myself  if  I  could;  the  arrow  within 

me. 
Katie  was  not  in  the  house,  thank  God:  I  saw  her  in 

passing, 
Saw  her,  unseen  myself,  with  the  pang  of   a  cruel  de- 
sertion ; 
What  she  thinks  about  it,  God  knows!  poor  child;  may 

she  only 
Think  me  a  fool  and  a  madman,  and  no  more  worth  her 

remembering ! 
Meantime  all  through  the  mountains  I  hurry  and  know 

not  whither, 
Tramp   along  here,  and  think,  and   know  not  what   I 

should  think. 
Tell  me  then,  why,  as  I  sleep  amid  hill-tops  high  in 

the  moorland. 
Still  in  my  dreams  I  am  pacing  the  streets  of  the  dis- 
solute city, 
Where  dressy  girls  slithering  by  upon  pavements  give 

sign  for  accosting. 
Paint  on  their  beautiless  cheeks,  and  hunger  and  shame 

in  their  bosoms ; 
Hunger  by  drink,  and  by  that  which  they  shudder  yet 

burn  for,  appeasing,  — 
Hiding  their   shame  —  ah  God !  —  in  the  glare   of  the 

pviblic  gas-lights? 
Why,  while  I  feel  my  ears  catching  through   slumber 

the  run  of  the  streamlet, 
Still  am  I  pacing  the  pavement,  and  seeing  the  sign  for 

accosting. 
Still  am  I  passing  those  figures,  not  daring  to  look  in 

their  faces  ? 
Why,  when  the  chill,  ere  the  light,  of  the  daybreak  un- 
easily wakes  me. 
Find  I  a  cry  in  my  heart  crying  up  to  the  heaven  of 

heavens, 
No,  Great  Unjust  Judge !  she  is  purity ;  I  am  the  lost  one. 
You  will  not  think  that  I  soberly  look  for  such  things 

for  sweet  Katie; 
No,  biit  the  vision   is  on  me;  I  now  first  see  how  it 

happens, 


192  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

Feel  how  tender  and  soft  is  the  heart  of  a  girl;   how 

passive 
Fain  would  it  be,  how  helpless;  and  helplessness  leads 

to  destruction. 
Maiden  reserve  torn  from  off  it,  grows  never  again  to 

reclothe  it. 
Modesty  broken  through   once   to   immodesty  flies   for 

protection. 
Oh,  who  saws  through  the  trunk,  though  he  leave  the 

tree  up  in  the  forest. 
When  the  next  wind  casts  it  down,  —  is  his  not  the  hand 

that  smote  it  ? 
This  is  the  answer,  the  second,  which,  pondering  long 

with  emotion, 
There  by  himself  in  the  cottage  the  Tutor  addressed  to 

Philip. 
I  have  perhaps  been  severe,  dear  Philip,  and  hasty; 

forgive  me ; 
For  I  was  fain  to  reply  ere  I  wholly  had  read  through 

your  letter; 
And  it  was  written  in  scraps  with  crossings  and  counter- 
crossings 
Hard  to  connect  with  each  other  correctly,  and  hard  to 

decipher ; 
Paper  was   scarce,  I   suppose :   forgive  me ;   I  write  to 

console  you. 
Grace  is  given  of  God,  but  knowledge  is  bought  in 

the  market ; 
Knowledge  needful  for  all,  yet  cannot  be  had  for  the 

asking. 
There   are  exceptional  beings,  one  finds  them  distant 

and  rarely. 
Who,  endowed  with  the  vision  alike  and  the  interpre- 
tation, 
See,  by  the  neighbours'  eyes  and  their  own  still  motions 

enlightened, 
In  the  beginning  the  end,  in  the  acorn  the  oak  of  the 

forest, 
In  the  child  of  to-day  its  children  to  long  generations. 
In  a  thought  or  a  wish  a  life,  a  drama,  an  epos. 
Tliere  are  inheritors,  is  it  ?  by  mystical  generation 
Heiring  the  wisdom   and  ripeness  of   spirits  gone  by; 

without  labour 


THE  BOTHIE    OF   TODER-NA-VUOLICH.     193 

Owning  wiiat  others  by  doing  and  suffering  earn;  what 
old  men 

After  long  years  of  mistake  and  erasure  are  proud  to 
have  come  to, 

Siek  with  mistake  and  erasure  possess  when  possession 
is  idle. 

Yes,  there  is  power  upon  earth,  seen  feebly  in  women 
and  children, 

Which  can,  laying  one  hand  on  the  cover,  read  off,  un- 
faltering. 

Leaf  after  leaf  unlifted,  the  words  of  the  closed  book 
under, 

Words  which  we  are  poring  at,  hammering  at,  stumbling 
at,  spelling. 

Rare  is  this ;  wisdom  mostly  is  bought  for  a  price  in  the 
market ;  — 

Rare  is  this ;  and  happy,  who  buys  so  much  for  so  little, 

As  I  conceive  have  you,  and  as  I  will  hope  has  Katie. 

Knowledge  is  needful  for  man,  —  needful  no  less  for 
woman, 

Even  in  Highland  glens,  were  they  vacant  of  shooter 
and  tourist. 

Not  that,  of  course,  I  mean  to  prefer  your  blindfold 
hurry 

Unto  a  soul  that  abides  most  loving  yet  most  with- 
holding ; 

Least  unfeeling  though  calm,  self-contained  yet  most 
unselfish ; 

Renders  help  and  accepts  it,  a  man  among  men  that 
are  brothers. 

Views,  not  plucks,  the  beauty,  adores,  and  demands  no 
embracing, 

So  in  its  peaceful  passage  whatever  is  lovely  and  gracious 

Still  without  seizing  or  spoiling,  itself  in  itself  repro- 
ducing. 

No,  I  do  not  set  Philip  herein  on  the  level  of  Arthur ; 

No,  I  do  not  compare  still  tarn  with  furious  torrent, 

Yet  will  the  tarn  overflow,  assuaged  in  the  lake  be  the 
torrent. 

Women  are  weak,  as  you  say,  and  love  of  all  things  to 
be  passive, 

Passive,  patient,  receptive,  yea,  even  of  wrong  and  mis- 
doing, 


194  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Even   to   force   and   misdoing  with   joy  and  victorious 
feeling 

Patient,  passive,  receptive;  for  that  is  the  strength  of 
their  being, 

Like  to  the  earth  taking  all  things,  and  all  to  good  con- 
verting. 

Oh,  'tis  a  snare  indeed !  —  Moreover,  remember  it,  Philip, 

To  the  prestige  of  the  richer  the  lowly  are  prone  to  be 
yielding, 

Think  that  in  dealing  with  them  they  are  raised  to  a 
different  region, 

Where   old  laws   and   morals   are  modified,  lost,   exist 
not; 

Ignorant  they  as  they  are,  they  have  but  to  conform  and 
be  yielding. 
But  I  have  spoken  of  this  already,  and  need  not  repeat 
it. 

You  will  not  now  run  after  what  merely  attracts  and 
entices, 

Every-day    things    highly-coloured,    and    common-place 
carved  and  gilded. 

You  will  henceforth  seek  only  the  good:  and  seek  it, 
Philip, 

Where  it  is  —  not  more  abundant,  perhaps,  but  —  more 
easily  met  with ; 

Where  you  are  surer  to  find  it,  less  likely  to  run  into 
error. 

In  your  station,  not  thinking  about  it,  but  not  disregard- 
ing. 
So  was  the  letter  completed:  a  postscript  afterward 
added. 

Telling  the  tale  that  was  told  by  the  dancers  returning 
from  liannoch. 

So  was  the  letter  completed :  but  query,  whither  to  send 
it? 

Not  for  the  will  of  the  wisp,  the  cloud,. and  the  hawk  of 
the  moorland. 

Ranging  afar  thro'  Lochaber,  Lochiel,  and  Knoydart,  and 
Moydart, 

Have  even  latest  extensions  adjusted  a  postal  arrange- 
ment. 

Query  resolved  very  shortly,  when  Hope,  from  his  cham- 
ber descending, 


THE  BOTH  IE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     195 

Came  with  a  note  in  his  hand  from  the  Lady,  his  aunt,  at 
the  Castle ; 

Came  and  revealed  the  contents  of  a  missive  that  brought 
strange  tidings ; 

Came  and  announced  to  the  friends,  in  a  voice  that  was 
husky  with  wonder, 

Philip  was  staying  at  Balloch,  was  there  in  the  room 
with  the  Countess, 

Philip  to  Balloch  had  come  and  was  dancing  with  Lady 
Maria. 
Philip  at  Balloch,  he  said,  after  all  that  stately  refusal, 

He   there   at   last  —  0   strange !    0   marvel,   marvel    of 
marvels ! 

Airlie,  the  Waistcoat,  with  Katie,  we  left  him  this  morn- 
ing at  Kannoch : 

Airlie  with  Katie,  he  said,  and  Philip  with  Lady  Maria. 
And  amid  laughter  Adam  paced  up  and  down,  repeat- 
ing 

Over  and  over,  unconscious,  the  phrase  which  Hope  had 
lent  him, 

Dancing  at  Balloch,  you  say,  in  the  Castle,  with  Lady 
Maria. 

V. 

Putavi 

Stulttis  ego  huic  nostrce  similem. 

So  in  the  cottage  with  Adam  the  pupils  five  together 
Duly  remained,  and  read,  and  looked  no  more  for  Philip, 
Philip  at  Balloch  shooting  and  dancing  with  Lady  Maria. 
Breakfast  at  eight,  and  now,  for  brief  September  day- 
light, 
Luncheon  at  two,  and  dinner  at  seven,  or  even  later, 
Pive  full  hours  between  for  the  loch  and  the  glen  and  the 

mountain,  — 
So  in  the  joy  of  their  life  and  glory  of  shooting-jackets. 
So  they  read  and  roamed,  the  pupils  five  with  Adam. 
What  if  autumnal  shower  came  frequent  and  chill  from 
the  westward, 
What  if  on  browner  sward  with  yellow  leaves  besprinkled, 
Gemming  the  crispy  blade,  the  delicate  gossamer  gem- 
ming, 
Frequent  and  thick  lay  at  morning  the  chilly  beads  of 
hoar-frost. 


196  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Duly  in  matutine  still,  and  daily,  whatever  the  weather, 
Bathed  in  the  rain  and  the  frost  and  the  mist  with  the 

Glory  of  headers 
Hope.     Thither  also  at  times,  of  cold  and  of  possible 

gutters 
Careless,  unmindful,  unconscious,  would  Hobbes,  or  ere 

they  departed, 
Come,  in  heavy  pea-coat  his  trouserless  trunk  enfolding, 
Come,  under  coat  over-brief  those  lusty  legs  displaying. 
All  from  the  shirt  to  the  slipper  the  natural  man  reveal- 
ing. 
Duly  there  they  bathed  and  daily,  the  twain  or  the  trio, 
Where  in  the  morning  was  custom,  where  over  a  ledge  of 

granite 
Into  a  granite  basin  the  amber  torrent  descended ; 
Beautiful,  very,  to  gaze  in  ere  plunging ;  beautiful  also, 
Perfect  as  picture,  as  vision  entrancing  that  comes  to  the 

sightless. 
Through  the  great  granite  jambs  the  stream,  the  glen, 

and  the  mountain. 
Beautiful,  seen  by  snatches  in  intervals  of  dressing, 
Morn   after  morn,  unsought  for,  recurring;   themselves 

too  seeming 
Not  as  spectators,  accepted  into  it,  immingled,  as  truly 
Part  of  it  as  are  the  kine  in  the  field  lying  there  by  the 
birches. 
So  they  bathed,  they  read,  they  roamed  in  glen  and 
forest ; 
Far  amid  blackest  pines  to  the  waterfall  they  shadow. 
Far  up  the  long,  long  glen  to  the  loch,  and  the  loch  be- 
yond it. 
Deep,  under  huge  red   clilfs,  a  secret;   and  oft  by  the 

starlight. 
Or  the  aurora,  perchance,  racing  home  for  the   eight 

o'clock  mutton. 
So  they  bathed,  and  read,  and  roamed  in  heathery  High- 
land ; 
There  in  the  joy  of  their  life  and  glory  of  shooting- jackets 
Bathed  and  read  and  roamed,  and  looked  no  more  for 
Philip. 

List  to  a  letter  that  came  from  Philip  at  Balloch  to  Adam. 
I  am  here,  0  my  friend! — idle,  but  learning  wisdom. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     197 

Doing  penance,  you  think ;  content,  if  so,  in  my  penance. 
Often  I  find  myself  saying,  while  watching  in  dance  or 

on  horseback 
One  that  is  here,  in  her  freedom  and  grace,  and  imperial 

sweetness. 
Often  I  find  myself  saying,  old  faith  and  doctrine  abjuring, 
Into  the    crucible    casting    philosophies,   facts,   convic- 
tions, — 
Were  it  not  well  that  the  stem  should  be  naked  of  leaf 

and  of  tendril, 
Poverty-stricken,  the  barest,  the  dismallest  stick  of  the 

garden ; 
Flowerless,  leafless,  unlovely,  for   ninety-and-nine  long 

summers. 
So  in  the  hundredth,  at  last,  were  bloom  for  one  day  at 

the  summit. 
So  but  that  fleeting  flower  were  lovely  as  Lady  Maria. 
Often  I  find  myself  saying,  and  know  not  myself  as  I 

say  it, 
What  of  the  poor  and  the  weary  ?  their  labour  and  pain 

is  needed. 
Perish  the  poor  and  the  weary!  what  can  they  better 

than  perish, 
Perish  in  labour  for  her,  who  is  worth  the  destruction  of 

empires  ? 
What!  for  a  mite,  for  a  mote,  an  impalpable  odour  of 

honour. 
Armies  shall  bleed ;  cities  burn ;  and  the  soldier  red  from 

the  storming 
Carry  hot  rancour  and  lust  into  chambers  of  mothers  and 

daughters : 
What!    would   ourselves  for  the  cause  of  an  hour  en- 
counter the  battle, 
Slay  and  be  slain ;  lie  rotting  in  hospital,  hulk,  and  prison : 
Die  as  a  dog  dies ;  die  mistaken  perhaps,  and  dishonoured. 
Yea,  —  and  shall  hodmen  in  beer-shops  complain   of   a 

glory  denied  them. 
Which  could  not  ever  be  theirs  more  than  now  it  is  theirs 

as  spectators  ? 
Which  could  not  be,  in  all  earth,  if  it  were  not  for  labour 

of  hodmen  ? 
And  I  find  myself  saying,  and  what  I  am  saying,  dis- 
cern not, 


198  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Dig  in  thy  deep  dark  prison,  0  miner !  and  finding  be 

thankful ; 
Though  unpolished  by  thee,  unto  thee  unseen  in  perfec- 
tion, 
While  thou  art  eating  black  bread  in  the  poisonous  air  of 

thy  cavern, 
Far  away  glitters  the   gem  on  the  peerless  neck   of  a 

Princess. 
Dig,  and  starve,  and  be  thankful ;  it  is  so,  and  thou  hast 

been  aiding. 
Often  I  find  myself  saying,  in  irony  is  it,  or  earnest  ? 
Yea,  what  is  more,  be  rich,  0  ye  rich !  be  sublime   in 

great  houses. 
Purple    and    delicate    linen   endure;    be   of    Burgundy 

patient ; 
Suffer  that  service  be  done  you,  permit  of  the  page  and 

the  valet. 
Vex  not  your  souls  with  annoyance  of  charity  schools  or 

of  districts, 
Cast   not  to  swine  of  the   stye  the   pearls  that  should 

gleam  in  your  foreheads. 
Live,  be  lovely,  forget  them,  be  beautiful  even  to  proud- 

ness, 
Even  for  their  poor  sakes  whose  happiness  is  to  behold 

you; 
Live,  be  uncaring,  be  joyous,  be   sumptuous;   only  be 

lovely,  — 
Sumptuous  not  for  display,  and  joyous,  not  for  enjoy- 
ment; 
Not  for  enjoyment  truly;  for  Beauty  and  God's  great 

glory! 
Yes,  and  I  say,  and  it  seems  inspiration  —  of  Good  or 

of  Evil ! 
Is  it  not  He  that  hath  done  it,  and  who  shall  dare  gain- 
say it  ? 
Is  it  not  even  of  Him,  who  hath  made  us  ?  —  Yea,  for  the 

lions, 
Roaring  after  their  prey,  do  seek  their  meat  from  God  I 
Is  it  not  even  of  Him,  who  one  kind  over  another 
All  the  works  of  His  hand  hath  disposed  in  a  wonderful 

order  ? 
Who  hath  made  man,  as  the  beasts,  to  live  the  one  on  the 

other, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     199 

Who  hath  made  man  as  Himself  to  know  the  law  —  and 
accept  it ! 
You  will  wonder  at  this,  no  doubt !     I  also  wonder ! 

But  we  must  live  and  learn ;  we  can't  know  all  things  at 
twenty. 

List  to  a  letter  of  Hobbes  to  Philip  his  friend  at  Balloch. 
All  Cathedrals  are   Christian,  all   Christians   are  Ca- 
thedrals, 

Such  is  the  Catholic  doctrine;  'tis  ours  with  a  slight 
variation ; 

Every  woman  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  Cathedral, 

Built  on  the  ancient  plan,  a  Cathedral  pure  and  perfect. 

Built  by  that  only  law,  that  Use  be  suggester  of  Beauty, 

Nothing  concealed  that  is  done,  but  all  things  done  to 
adornment, 

Meanest  utilities  seized  as  occasions  to  grace  and  em- 
bellish. — 
So  had  I  duly  commenced  in  the  spirit  and  style  of 
my  Philip, 

So  had  I  formally  opened  the  Treatise  upon  the  Laws  of 

Architectural  Beauty  in  Application  to  Women, 

So  had  I  writ.  —  But  my  fancies  are  palsied  by  tidings 
they  tell  me. 

Tidings  —  ah  me,  can  it  be  then  ?  that  I,  the  blasphemer 
accounted. 

Here  am  with  reverent  heed  at  the  wondrous  Analogy 
working. 

Pondering  thy  words  and  thy  gestures,  whilst  thou,  a 
prophet  apostate, 

(How  are  the  mighty  fallen!)  whilst  thou,  a  shepherd 
travestie, 

(How  are  the  mighty  fallen !  )  with  gun,  —  with  pipe  no 
longer, 

Teachest  the  woods  to  re-echo  thy  game-killing  recanta- 
tions, 

Teachest    thy  verse  to  exalt  Amaryllis,   a  Countess's 
daughter  ? 
What,  thou  forgettest,  bewildered,  my  Master,  that 
rightly  considered 

Beauty   must   ever   be  useful,  what  truly   is   useful  is 
graceful ? 

She  that  is  handy  is  handsome,  good  dairy-maids  must 
be  good-looking, 


200  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

If  but  the  butter  be  nice,  the  tournure  of  the  elbow  is 

shapely", 
If  the  cream-cheeses  be  white,  far  whiter  the  hands  that 

made  them. 
If  —  but  alas,  is  it  true?  while  the  pupil  alone  in  the 

cottage 
Slowly  elaborates  here  thy  System  of  Feminine  Graces, 
Thou  in  the  palace,  its  author,  art  dining,  small-talking 

and  dancing. 
Dancing  and  pressing  the  fingers  kid-gloved  of  a  Lady 

Maria. 
These   are  the  final  words,  that  came  to  the   Tutor 

from  Balloch. 
I  am  conquered,  it  seems !  you  will  meet  me,  I  hope,  in 

Oxford, 
Altered  in  manners  and  mind.     I  yield  to  the  laws  and 

arrangements. 
Yield  to  the  ancient  existent  decrees :  who  am  I  to  resist 

them? 
Yes,  you  will  find  me  altered  in  mind,  I  think,  as  in 

manners. 
Anxious  too  to  atone  for  six  weeks'  loss  of  your  Logic. 

So  in  the  cottage  with  Adam,  the  pupils  five  together, 
Read,  and  bathed,  and  roamed,  and  thought  not  now  of 

Philip, 
All  in  the  joy  of  their  life,  and  glory  of  shooting-jackets. 

VI. 

Ducite  ab  nrbe  domum,  mea  carmina,  ducite  Daphnin. 

Bright  October  was  come,  the  misty-bright  October, 
Bright  October  was  come  to  burn  and  glen  and  cottage ; 
But  the  cottage  was  empty,  the  matutine  deserted. 

Who  are  these  that  walk  by  the  shore  of  the  salt  sea 

water  ? 

Here  in  the  dusky  eve,  on  the  road  by  the  salt  sea 

water  ? 

Who  are  these  ?  and  where  ?  it  is  no  sweet  seclusion ; 

Blank  hill-sides  slope  down  to  a  salt  sea  loch  at  their 

bases, 
Scored  by  runnels,  that  fringe  ere  they  end  with  rowan 
and  alder ; 


THE   BOTH  IE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     201 

Cottages  here  and  there  outstanding  bare  on  the  moun- 
tain, 

Peat-roofed,  windowless,  white ;  the  road  underneath  by 
the  water. 
There  on  the  blank  hill-side,  looking  down  through  the 
loch  to  the  ocean. 

There  with  a  runnel  beside,  and  pine  trees  twain  before  it, 

There  with  the  road  underneath,  and  in  sight  of  coaches 
and  steamers, 

Dwelling  of  David  Mackaye,  and  his  daughters  Elspie 
and  Bella, 

Sends  up  a  column  of   smoke  the   Bothie  of   Tober-na- 
vuolich. 
And   of   the   older   twain,  the  elder  was  telling   the 
younger, 

How  on  his  pittance  of  soil  he  lived,  and  raised  pota- 
toes, 

Barley,  and  oats,  in  the  bothie  where  lived  his  father 
before  him ; 

Yet  was  smith  by  trade,  and  had  travelled  making  horse- 
shoes 

Far ;  in  the  army  had  seen  some  service  with  brave  Sir 
Hector, 

Wounded  soon,  and  discharged,  disabled  as  smith  and 
soldier ; 

He  had  been  many  things  since  that,  —  drover,  —  school- 
master, 

Whitesmith,  —  but  when  his  brother  died  childless  came 
up  hither; 

And  although  he  could  get  fine  work  that  would  pay  in 
the  city, 

Still  was  fain  to  abide  where  his  father  abode  before 
him. 

And  the  lassies  are  bonnie,  —  I'm  father  and  mother  to 
them,  — 

Bonnie  and  young;  they're  healthier  here,  I  judge,  and 
safer, 

I  myself  iind  time  for  their  reading,  writing,  and  learning. 
So  on  the  road  they  walk  by  the  shore  of  the  salt  sea 
water. 

Silent  a  youth  and  maid,  and  elders  twain  conversing. 
This  was  the  letter  that  came  when  Adam  was  leaving 
the  cottage. 


202  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

If  you  can  manage  to  see  me  before  going  off  to  Dart- 
moor, 

Come  by  Tuesday's  coach  through  Glencoe  (you  have  not 
seen  it), 

Stop  at  the  ferry  below,  and  ask  your  way  (you   will 
wonder. 

There  however  I  am)  to  the  Bothie  of  Tober-na-vuolich. 
And  on  another  scrap,  of  next  day's  date  was  writ- 
ten: — 

It  was  by  accident  purely  I  lit  on  the  place;   I  was 
returning, 

Quietly,  travelling  homeward  by  one  of  these  wretched 
coaches ; 

One  of  the  horses  cast  a  shoe ;  and  a  farmer  passing 

Said,  Old  David's  your  man ;  a  clever  fellow  at  shoeing 

Once ;  just  here  by  the  firs ;  they  call  it  Tober-na-vuolich. 

So  .1  saw  and  spoke  with  David  Mackaye,  our  acquaint- 
ance. 

When  we  came  to  the  journey's  end  some   five  miles 
farther. 

In  my  unoccupied  evening  I  walked  back  again  to  the 
bothie. 
But  on  the  final  crossing,  still  later  in  date,  was  added : 

Come  as  soon  as  you  can ;  be  sure  and  do  not  refuse  me. 

Who  would  have  guessed  I  should  find  my  haven  and 
end  of  my  travel. 

Here,  by  accident  too,  in  the  bothie  we  laughed  about  so  ? 

Who  would  have  guessed  that  here  would  be  she  whose 
glance  at  Rannoch 

Turned   me   in  that   mysterious  way;   yes,  angels  con- 
spiring. 

Slowly  drew  me,  conducted  me,  home,  to  herself;   the 
needle 

Which  in  the  shaken  compass  flew  hither  and  thither, 
at  last,  long 

Quivering,  poises  to  north.     I  think  so.     But  I  am  cau- 
tious : 

More,  at  least,  than  I  was  in  the  old  silly  days  when  I 
left  you. 
Not  at  the  bothie  now;  at  the  changehouse  in  the 
clachan ; ' 

Why  I  delay  my  letter  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 
1  Public-bouse  in  tbe  bamlet. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     203 

There  was  another  scrap,  without  or  date  or  comment, 
Dotted  over  with  various  observations,  as  follows  :  — 
Only  think,  I  had  danced  with  her  twice,  and  did  not 

remember. 
I   was   as   one   that   sleeps  on  the  railway ;   one,   who 

dreaming 
Hears  thro'  his  dream  the  name  of  his  home  shouted  out ; 

hears  and  hears  not,  — 
Faint,  and  louder  again,  and  less  loud,  dying  in  distance ; 
Dimly  conscious,  with  something  of  inward  debate  and 

choice,  —  and 
Sense  of  claim  and  reality  present,  anon  relapses 
Nevertheless,  and  continues  the  dream  and  fancy,  while 

forward 
Swiftly,  remorseless,  the  car  presses  on,  he  knows  not 

whither. 
Handsome  who  handsome  is,  who  handsome  does  is 

more  so ; 
Pretty  is  all  very  pretty,  it's  prettier  far  to  be  useful. 
No,  fair  Lady  Maria,  I  say  not  that ;  but  I  will  say, 
Stately  is  service  accepted,  but  lovelier  service  rendered, 
Interchange  of  service  the  law  and  condition  of  beauty : 
Any  way  beautiful  only  •to  be  the  thing  one  is  meant  for. 
I,  I  am  sure,  for  the  sphere  of  mere  ornament  am  not 

intended : 
No,  nor  she,  I  think,  thy  sister  at  Tober-na-vuolich. 
This  was  the  letter  of  Philip,  and  this  had  brought  the 

Tutor : 
This  is  why  Tutor  and  pupil  are  walking  with  David  and 

Elspie.  — 
When  for  the  night  they  part,  and  these,  once   more 

together. 
Went  by  the  lochside  along  to  the  changehouse  near  in 

the  clachan. 
Thus  to  his  pupil  anon  commenced  the  grave  man,  Adam. 
•  Yes,  she  is  beautiful,  Philip,  beautiful  even  as  morning : 
Yes,  it  is  that  which  I  said,  the  Good  and  not  the  At- 
tractive ! 
Happy  is  he  that  finds,  and  finding  does  not  leave  it ! 
Ten  more  days  did  Adam  with  Philip  abide  at  the 

changehouse. 
Ten  more  nights  they  met,  they  walked  with  father  and 

daughter. 


204  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Ten  more  nights,  and  niglit  by  night  more  distant  away 

were 
Philip  and  she ;  every  night  less  heedful,  by  habit,  the 

father. 
Happy  ten  days,  most  happy :    and,  otherwise  than  in- 
tended, 
Fortunate  visit  of  Adam,  companion  and  friend  to  David. 
Happy  ten  days,  be  ye  fruitful  of  happiness !     Pass  o'er 

them  slowly, 
Slowly ;  like  cruse  of  the  prophet  be  multiplied,  even  to 

ages! 
Pass  slowly  o'er  them,  ye  days  of  October ;  ye  soft  misty 

mornings. 
Long  dusky  eves ;   pass  slowly ;   and  thou,  great  Term- 
time  of  Oxford, 
Awful   with   lectures   and   books,   and  Little-goes,  and 

Great-goes, 
Till  but  the  sweet  bud  be  perfect,  recede  and  retire  for 

the  lovers. 
Yea.,  for  the  sweet  love  of  lovers,  postpone  thyself  even 

to  doomsday ! 
Pass  o'er  them  slowly,  ye  hours !     Be  with  them,  ye 

Loves  and  Graces ! 
Indirect  and  evasive  no  longer,  a  cowardly  bather. 
Clinging  to  bough  and  to  rock,  and  sidling  along  by  the 

edges. 
In  your  faith,  ye  Muses  and  Graces,  who  love  the  plain 

present. 
Scorning  historic  abridgment  and  artifice  anti-poetic. 
In  your  faith,  ye  Muses  and  Loves,  ye  Loves  and  Graces, 
I  will  confront  the  great  peril,  and  speak  with  the  mouth 

of  the  lovers, 
As  they  spoke  by  the  alders,  at  evening,  the  runnel  below 

them, 
Elspie,  a  diligent  knitter,  and  Philip  her  fingers  watching. 


VII. 

Vesper  adest,  juvenes,  conaurgite :   Vesper  Olympo 
Expectata  diu  vix  tandem  lumina  tollit. 

For  she  confessed,  as  they  sat  in  the  dusk,  and  he  saw 
not  her  blushes, 


THE   BOTH  IE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     205 

Elspie  confessed  at  the  sports  long  ago  with  her  father 

she  saw  him, 
When  at  the  door  the  okl  man  had  told  him  the  name  of 

the  bothie ; 
Then  after  that  at  the  dance;  yet  again  at  a  dance  in 

Eannoch  — 
And   she  was   silent,  confused.     Confused  much  rather 

Philip 
Buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  his  face  that  with  blood  was 

bursting. 
Silent,  confused,  yet  by  pity  she  conquered  her  fear,  and 

continued. 
Katie  is  good  and  not  silly;  be  comforted.  Sir,  about 

her ; 
Katie  is  good  and  not  silly ;  tender,  but  not,  like  many. 
Carrying  off,  and  at  once,  for  fear  of  being  seen,  in  the 

bosom 
Locking-up  as  in  a  cupboard  the  pleasure  that  any  man 

gives  them, 
Keeping  it  out  of  sight  as  a  prize  they  need  be  ashamed 

of; 
That  is  the  way,  I  think.  Sir,  in  England  more  than  in 

Scotland ; 
No,  she  lives  and  takes  pleasure  in  all,  as  in  beautiful 

weather, 
Sorry  to  lose  it,  but  just  as  we  would  be  to  lose  fine 

weather. 
And  she  is  strong  to  return  to  herself  and  feel  unde- 

serted. 
Oh,  she  is  strong,  and  not  silly :  she  thinks  no  further 

about  you ; 
She  has  had  kerchiefs  before  from  gentle,  I  know,  as 

from  simple. 
Yes,  she  is  good  and  not  silly ;  yet  were  you  wrong,  Mr. 

Philip, 
Wrong,  for  yourself  perhaps  more  than  for  her. 

But  Philip  replied  not, 
Eaised  not  his  eyes  from  the  hands  on  his  knees. 

And  Elspie  continued. 
That  was  what  gave  me  much  pain,  when  I  met  you  that 

dance  at  Rannoch, 
Dancing  myself  too  with  you,  while  Katie  danced  with 

Donald ; 


206  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

That  was  what  gave  me  such  pain;  I  thought  it  all  a 

mistaking, 
All  a  mere  chance,  you  know,  and  accident,  —  not  proper 

choosing,  — 
There  were  at  least  five  or  six  —  not   there,  no,  that  I 

don't  say, 
But  in  the  country  about  —  you  might  j\ist  as  well  have 

been  courting, 
That  was  what  gave   me   much   pain,   and   (you  won't 

remember  that,  though). 
Three  days  after,  I  met  you,  beside  my  uncle's,  walking. 
And  I  was  wondering  much,  and  hoped  you  wouldn't 

notice. 
So  as  I  passed  I  couldn't  help  looking.    You  didn't  know 

me. 
But  I  was  glad,  when  I  heard  next  day  you  were  gone  to 

the  teacher. 
And  uplifting  his  face  at  last,  with  eyes  dilated. 
Large   as   great   stars  in  mist,  and  dim,  with  dabbled 

lashes, 
Philip,  with  new  tears  starting. 

You  think  I  do  not  remember, 
Said,  —  suppose  that  I  did  not  observe  !     Ah  me,  shall  I 

tell  you  ? 
Elspie,  it  was  your  look  that  sent  me  away  from  Rannoch. 
It  was  your  glance  that,  descending,  an  instant  revela- 
tion. 
Showed  me  where  I  was,  and  whitherward  going;  re- 
called me. 
Sent  me,  not  to  my  books,  but  to  wrestlings  of  thought 

in  the  mountains. 
Yes,  I  have  carried  your  glance  within  me  undimmed, 

unaltered. 
As  a  lost  boat  the  compass  some  passing  ship  has  lent  her, 
Many  a  weary  mile  on  road,  and  hill,  and  moorland : 
And  you  suppose  that  I  do  not  remember,  I  had  not 

observed  it ! 
0  did  the  sailor  bewildered  observe  when  they  told  him 

his  bearings  ? 
0,  did  he  cast  overboard,  when  they  parted,  the  compass 

they  gave  him  ? 
And  he  continued  more  firmly,  although  with  stronger 

emotion : 


THE  BOTIIIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     207 

Elspie,  why  should  I  speak  it  ?  you  cannot  believe  it, 
•  and  should  not : 
Why  should  I  say  that  I  love,  which  I  all  but  said  to 

another  ? 
Yet  should  I  dare,  should  I  say,  0  Elspie,  you  only  I 

love;  you. 
First  and  sole  in  my  life  that  has  been  and  surely  that 

shall  be ; 
Could  —  0,  could  you  believe  it,  0  Elspie,  believe  it  and 

spurn  not  ? 
Is  it  —  possible,  —  possible,  Elspie  ? 

Well,  —  she  answered. 
And  she  was  silent  some  time,  and  blushed  all  over,  and 

answered 
Quietly,  after  her  fashion,  still  knitting.  Maybe,  I  think 

of  it, 
Though  I  don't  know  that  I  did :  and  she  paused  again ; 

but  it  may  be. 
Yes,  —  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Philip,  —  but  only  it  feels  to 

me  strangely. 
Like  to  the  high  new  bridge,  they  used  to  build  at,  below 

there. 
Over  the  burn  and  glen  on  the  road.     You  won't  under- 
stand me. 
But  I  keep  saying  in  my  mind — this  long  time  slowly 

with  trouble 
I  have  been  building  myself,  up,  up,  and  toilfully  raising. 
Just  like  as  if  the  bridge  were  to  do  it  itself  without 

masons. 
Painfully  getting  myself  upraised  one  stone  on  another. 
All  one  side  I  mean ;  and  now  I  see  on  the  other 
Just  such  another  fabric  uprising,  better  and  stronger. 
Close  to  me,  coming  to  join  me :  and  then  I  sometimes 

fancy,  — 
Sometimes  I  find  myself  dreaming  at  nights  about  arches 

and  bridges,  — 
Sometimes  I  dream  of  a  great  invisible   hand  coming 

down,  and 
Dropping  the  great  key-stone  in  the  middle :  there  in  my 

dreaming. 
There  I  felt  the  great  key-stone  coming  in,  and  through  it 
Peel  the  other  part  —  all  the  other  stones  of  the  9a^ch- 

way, 


208  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Joined  into  mine  with  a  strange  happy  sense  of  com- 
pleteness.    But,  dear  me, 
This  is  confusion  and  nonsense.     I  mix  all  the  things  I 

can  think  of. 
And  you  won't  understand,  Mr.  Philip. 

But  while  she  was  speaking, 
So  it  happened,  a  moment  she  paused  from  her  work,  and 

pondering, 
Laid  her  hand  on  her  lap :  Philip  took  it :  she  did  not 

resist : 
So  he  retained  her  fingers,  the  knitting  being  stopped. 

But  emotion 
Came  all  over  her  more  and  yet  more  from  his  hand, 

from  her  heart,  and 
Most  from  the  sweet  idea  and  image  her  brain  was  re- 
newing. 
So  he  retained  her  hand,  and,  his  tears  down-dropping 

on  it. 
Trembling   a   long   time,  kissed   it   at   last.      And   she 

ended. 
And   as   she  ended,  uprose  he,   saying:    What  have   I 

heard  ?     Oh, 
What  have  I  done,  that  such  words  should  be  said  to 

me  ?     Oh,  I  see  it, 
See  the  great  key-stone  coming  down  from  the  heaven  of 

heavens ; 
And  he  fell  at  her  feet,  and  buried  his  face  in  her  apron. 
But  as  under  the  moon  and  stars  they  went  to  the 

cottage, 
Elspie  sighed  and  said.  Be  patient,  dear  Mr.  Philip, 
Do  not  do  anything  hasty.     It  is  all  so  soon,  so  sudden. 
Do  not  say  anything  yet  to  any  one. 

Elspie,  he  answered. 
Does  not  my  friend  go  on  Friday  ?     1  then  shall  see 

nothing  of  you. 
Do  not  I  go  myself  on  Monday  ? 

But  oh,  he  said,  Elspie ! 
Do  as  I  bid  you,  my  child :  do  not  go  on  calling  me  Mr. ; 
Might  I  not  just  as  well  be  calling  you  Miss  Elspie  ? 
Call  me,  this  heavenly  night  for  once,  for  the  first  time, 

Philip. 
Philip,  she  said,  and  laughed,  and  said  she  could  not 

say  it } 


THE  BOTIIIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     209 

Philip,  she  said ;  he  turned,  and  kissed  the  sweet  lips  as 
they  said  it. 

But  on  the  morrow  Elspie  kept  out  of  the  way  of 

Philip : 
And  at  the  evening  seat,  when  he  took  her  hand  by  the 

alders, 
Drew  it  back,  saying,  almost  peevishly, 

No,  Mr.  Philip, 
I  was  quite  right,  last  night ;  it  is  too  soon,  too  sudden. 
What  1  told  you  before  was  foolish  perhaps,  was  hasty. 
When  I  think  it  over,  I  am  shocked  and  terrified  at  it. 
Not  that  at  all  I  unsay  it ;  that  is,  I  know  I  said  it. 
And  when  I  said  it,  felt  it.     But  oh,  we  must  wait,  Mr. 

Philip ! 
We  mustn't  pull  ourselves  at  the  great  key-stone  of  the 

centre : 
Some  one  else  up  above  must  hold  it,  fit  it,  and  fix  it ; 
If  we  try  ourselves,  we  shall  only  damage  the  archway, 
Damage  all  our  own  work  that  we  wrought,  our  painful 

upbuilding. 
When,  you  remember,  you  took  my  hand  last  evening, 

talking, 
I  was  all  over  a  tremble :  and  as  you  pressed  the  fingers 
After,  and  afterwards  kissed  them,  I  could  not  speak. 

And  then,  too, 
As  we  went  home,  you  kissed  me  for  saying  your  name. 

It  was  dreadful. 
I  have  been  kissed  before,  she  added,  blushing  slightly, 
I  have  been  kissed  more  than  once  by  Donald  my  cousin, 

and  others  ; 
It  is  the  way  of  the  lads,  and  I  make  up  my  mind  not  to 

mind  it ; 
But,  Mr.  Philip,  last  night,  and  from  you,  it  was  different, 

quite,  Sir. 
When  I  think  of  all  that,  I  am  shocked  and  terrified  at  it. 
Yes,  it  is  dreadful  to  me. 

She  paused,  but  quickly  continued, 
Smiling  almost  fiercely,  continued,  looking  iipward. 
You  are  too  strong,  you  see,  Mr.  Philip!  just  like  the  sea 

there, 
Which  %oill  come,  through  the  straits  and  all  between  the 

mountains 


210  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

Forcing  its  great  strong  tide  into  every  nook  aad  inlet, 
Getting  far   in,  up  the   quiet   stream   of   sweet  inland 

Avater, 
Sucking  it  up,  and  stopping  it,  turning  it,  driving  it  back- 
ward, 
Quite  preventing  its  own  quiet  running ;  and  then,  soon 

after. 
Back  it  goes  off,  leaving  weeds  on  the  shore,  and  wrack 

and  uncleanuess  : 
And  the  poor  burn  in  the  glen  tries  again  its  peaceful 

running, 
But  it  is  brackish  and  tainted,  and  all  its  banks  in  dis- 
order. 
That  was  what  I  dreamt  all  last  night.    I  was  the  burnie, 
Trying  to  get  along  through  the  tyrannous  brine,  and 

could  not ; 
I  was  confined  and  squeezed  in  the  coils  of  the  great  salt 

tide,  that 
Would  mix-in  itself  with  me,  and  change  me;   I  felt 

myself  changing ; 
And  I  struggled,  and  screamed,  I  believe,  in  my  dream. 

It  was  dreadful. 
You  are  too  strong,  Mr.  Philip !     I  am  but  a  poor  slender 

burnie, 
Used  to  the  glens  and  the  rocks,  the  rowan  and  birch  of 

the  woodies, 
Quite  unused  to  the  great  salt  sea ;   quite  afraid  and 

unwilling. 
Ere  she  had  spoken  two  words,  had  Philip  released  her 

fingers ; 
As  she  went  on,  he  recoiled,  fell  back,  and  shook  and 

shivered ; 
There  he  stood,  looking  pale  and  ghastly ;  when  she  had 

ended. 
Answering  in  hollow  voice, 

It  is  true ;  oh,  quite  true,  Elspie ; 
Oh,  you  are  always  riglit;  oh,  what,  what  have  I  been 

doing? 
I  will  depart  to-morrow.     But  oh,  forget  me  not  wholly, 
Wholly,  Elspie,  nor  hate  me ;  no,  do  not  hate  me,  my 

Elspie. 
But  a  reviilsion  passed  through  the  brain  and  bosom  of 

Elspie ; 


THE  BOTH  IE   OF   TOBER-NA~VUOLICH.     211 

And  she  got  up  from  her  seat  ou  the  rock,  putting  by  her 

knitting ; 
Went  to  him,  where  he  stood,  and  answered : 

No,  Mr.  Philip, 
No,  you  are  good,  Mr.  Philip,  and  gentle ;  and  I  am  the 

foolish : 
No,  Mr.  Philip,  forgive  me. 

She  stepped  right  to  him,  and  boldly 
Took  up  his  hand,  and  placed  it  in  hers:  he  dared  no 

movement ; 
Took  up  the  cold  hanging  hand,  up-forcing  the  heavy 

elbow. 
I  am  afraid,  she  said,  but  I  will ;  and  kissed  the  fingers. 
And  he   fell   on   his  knees   and   kissed    her  own   past 

counting. 

But  a  revulsion  wrought  in  the  brain  and   bosom  of 
Elspie ; 
And  the  passion  she  just  had  compared  to  the  vehement 

ocean. 
Urging  in  high  spring-tide  its  masterful  way  through  the 

mountains, 
Forcing  and  flooding  the  silvery  stream,  as  it  runs  from 

the  inland ; 
That  great  power  withdrawn,  receding  here  and  passive. 
Felt  she  in  myriad  springs,  her  sources  far  in  the  moun- 
tains. 
Stirring,  collecting,  rising,  upheaving,  forth-outflowing, 
Taking  and  joining,  right  welcome,  that  delicate  rill  in  the 

valley, 
Filling  it,  making  it  strong,  and  still  descending,  seeking. 
With  a  blind  forefeeling  descending  ever,  and  seeking. 
With  a  delicious  forefeeling,  the  great  still  sea  before 

There  deep  into  it,  far,  to  carry,  and  lose  in  its  bosom. 

Waters  that  still  from  their  sources  exhaustless  are  fain 
to  be  added. 
As  he  was  kissing  her  fingers,  and  knelt  on  the  ground 
before  her. 

Yielding  backward  she  sank  to  her  seat,  and  of  what  she 
was  doing 

Ignorant,  bewildered,  in  sweet  multitudinous  vague  emo- 
tion, 


212  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

Stooping,  knowing  not  what,  put  her  lips  to  the  hair  on 

his  forehead : 
And  Philip,  raising  himself,  gently,  for  the  first  time 

round  her 
Passing  his  arms,  close,  close,  enfolded  her  close  to  his 

bosom. 
As  they  went  home  by  the  moon.  Forgive  me,  Philip,  she 

whispered ; 
I  have  so  many  things  to  think  of,  all  of  a  sudden ; 
I  who  had  never  once  thought  a  thing, — iu  my  ignorant 

Highlands. 

VIII. 

Jam  veniet  virgo,  jam  dicetur  Hymenoeus. 

But  a  revulsion  again  came  over  the  spirit  of  Elspie, 
When  she  thought  of  his  wealth,  his  birth  and  education : 
Wealth  indeed  but  small,  though  to  her  a  diiference  truly ; 
Father  nor  mother  had  Philip,  a  thousand  pounds  his 

portion. 
Somewhat  impaired  in  a  world  where  nothing  is  had  for 

nothing  ; 
Fortune  indeed  but  small,  and  prospects  plain  and  simple. 
But  the  many  things  that  he  knew,  and  the  ease  of  a 

practised 
Intellect's  motion,  and  all  those  indefinable  graces 
(Were  they  not  hers,  too,  Philip  ?)  to  speech,  and  manner, 

and  movement, 
Lent  by  the  knowledge  of  self,  and  wisely  instructed 

feeling, — 
Wlien  she  thought  of  these,  and  these  contemplated  daily, 
Daily  appreciating  more,  and  more  exactly  appraising,  — 
With  these  thoughts,  and  the  terror  withal  of  a  thing  she 

could  not 
Estimate,  and  of  a  step  (such  a  step !)  in  the  dark  to  be 

taken. 
Terror  nameless  and  ill-understood  of  deserting  her  sta- 
tion, — 
Daily  heavier,  heavier  upon  her  pressed  the  sorrow, 
Daily  distincter,  distincter  within  her  arose  the  conviction, 
He  was  too  high,  too  perfect,  and  she  so  unfit,  so  unworthy, 
(Ah  me  !  Philip,  that  ever  a  word  such  as  that  should  be 

written !) 


THE  BOTH  IE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     213 

It  would  do  neither  for  him  nor  for  her ;  she  also  was 
something, 

Not  mnch  indeed,  it  was  true,  yet  not  to  be  lightly  extin- 
guished. 

Should  he  —  he,  she  said,  have  a  wife  beneath  him  ?  her- 
self be 

An  inferior  there  where  only  equality  can  be  ? 

It  would  do  neither  for  him  nor  for  her. 

Alas  for  Philip ! 

Many  were  tears  and  great  was  perplexity.     Nor  had 
availed  then 

All  his  prayer  and  all  his  device.     But  much  was  spoken 

Now,  between  Adam  and  Elspie :  companions  were  they 
hourly  : 

Much  by  Elspie  to  Adam,  inquiring,  anxiously  seeking, 

From  his  experience  seeking  impartial  accurate  statement 

What  it  was  to  do  this  or  do  that,  go  hither  or  thither. 

How  in  the  after-life  would  seem  what  now  seeming  cer- 
tain 

Might  so  soon  be  reversed ;  in  her  quest  and  obscure  ex- 
ploring 

Still  from  that  quiet  orb  soliciting  light  to  her  footsteps ; 

Much  by  Elspie  to  Adam,  inquiringly,  eagerly  seeking : 

Much  by  Adam  to  Elspie,  informing,  reassuring. 

Much   that   was   sweet  to   Elspie,  by   Adam   heedfully 
speaking. 

Quietly,  indirectly,  in  general  terms,  of  Philip, 

Gravely,  but  indirectly,  not  as  incognisant  wholly, 

But  as  suspending  until  she  shoiild  seek  it,  direct  inti- 
mation ; 

Much  that  was  sweet  in  her  heart  of  what  he  was  and 
would  be, 

Much  that  was  strength  to  her  mind,  confirming  beliefs 
and  insights 

Pure  and  unfaltering,  but  young  and  mute  and  timid  for 
action : 

Much  of  relations  of  rich  and  poor,  and  of  true  education. 
It  was  on  Saturday  eve,  in  the  gorgeous  bright  October, 

Then  when  brackens  are  changed,  and  heather  blooms  are 
faded, 

And  amid  russet  of  heather  and  fern  green  trees  are 
bonnie ; 

Alders  are  green,  and  oaks ;  the  rowan  scarlet  and  yellow ; 


214  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

One  great  glory  of  broad  gold  pieces  appears  the  aspen, 
And  the  jewels  of  gold  that  were  hung  in  the  hair  of  the 

birch  tree, 
Pendulous,  here   and  there,  her  coronet,  necklace,  and 

ear-rings, 
Cover  her  now,  o'er  and  o'er ;  she  is  weary  and  scatters 

them  from  her. 
There,  upon  Saturday  eve,  in  the  gorgeous  bright  October, 
Under  the  alders  knitting,  gave  Elpsie  her  troth  to  Philip, 
Por  as  they  talked,  anon  she  said, 

It  is  well,  Mr.  Philip. 
Yes,  it  is  well :  I  have  spoken,  and  learnt  a  deal  with  the 

teacher. 
At  the  last  I  told  him  all,  I  could  not  help  it ; 
And  it  came  easier  with  him  than  could  have  been  with 

my  father ; 
And  he  calmly  approved,  as  one  that  had  fully  considered. 
Yes,  it  is  well,  I  have  hoped,  though  quite  too  great  and 

sudden ; 
I  am  so  fearful,  I  think  it  ought  not  to  be  for  years  yet. 
I  am  afraid ;  but  believe  in  you  ;    and  I   trust  to  the 

teacher ; 
You  have  done  all  things  gravely  and  temperate,  not  as 

in  passion  ; 
And  the  teacher  is  prudent,  and  surely  can  tell  what  is 

likely. 
AVhat  my  father  will  say,  I  know  not ;  we  will  obey  him  : 
Put  for  myself,  I  could  dare  to  believe  all  well,  and 

venture. 
0  Mr.  Philip,  may  it  never  hereafter  seem  to  be  different ! 
And  she  hid  her  face  — 

Oh,  where,  but  in  Philip's  bosom ! 

After   some   silence,  some  tears  too  perchance,  Philip 

laughed,  and  said  to  her, 
So,  my  own  Elspie,  at  last  you  are  clear  that  I'm  bad 

enough  for  you. 
Ah !  but  your  father  won't  make  one  half  the  question 

about  it 
You  have  —  he'll  think  me,  I  know,  nor  better  nor  worse 

than  Donald, 
Neither  better  nor  worse  for  my  gentlemanship   and 

bookwork, 


XITE  BOTH  IE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     215 

Worse,  I  fear,  as  he  knows  me  an  idle  and  vagabond 

fellow. 
Though  he  allows,  but  he'll  think  it  was  all  for  your  sake, 

Elspie, 
Though  he  allows  I  did  some  good  at  the  end  of  the 

shearing. 
But  I  had  thought  in  Scotland  you  didn't  care  for  this 

folly. 
How  I  wish,  he  said,  you  had  lived  all  your  days  in  the 

Highlands ! 
This  is  what  conies  of  the  year  you  spent  in  our  foolish 

England. 
You  do  not  all  of  you  feel  these  fancies. 

No,  she  answered. 
And  in  her  spirit  the  freedom  and  ancient  joy  was  re- 
viving. 
No,  she  said,  and  uplifted  herself,  and  looked  for  her 

knitting. 
No,  nor  do  /,  dear  Philip,  I  don't  myself  feel  always 
As  I  have  felt,  more  sorrow  for  me,  these  four  days  lately, 
Like  the  Peruvian  Indians  I  read  about  last  winter. 
Out  in  America  there,  in  somebody's  life  of  Pizarro ; 
Who   were   as   good   perhaps   as   the   Spaniards ;    only 

weaker ; 
And  that  the  one  big  tree  might  spread  its  root  and 

branches. 
All  the  lesser  about  it  must  even  be  felled  and  perish. 
No,  I  feel  much  more  as  if  I,  as  well  as  you,  were. 
Somewhere,  a  leaf  on  the  one  great  tree,  that,  up  from 

old  time 
Growing,  contains  in  itself  the  whole  of  the  virtue  and 

life  of 
Bygone   days,  drawing  now  to  itself   all  kindreds  and 

nations 
And  must  have  for  itself  the  whole  world  for  its  root  and 

branches. 
No,  I  belong  to  the  tree,  I  shall  not  decay  in  the  shadow ; 
Yes,  and  I  feel  the  life-juices  of  all  the  world  and  the  ages, 
Coming  to  me  as  to  you,  more  slowly  no  doubt  and  poorer : 
You  are  more  near,  but  then  you  will  help  to  convey 

them  to  me. 
No,  don't  smile,  Philip,  now,  so  scornfully !     While  you 

look  so 


216  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Scornful  and  strong,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  standing  and 

trembling, 
Fancying  the  burn  in  the  dark  a  wide  and  rushing  river; 
And  I  feel  coming  unto  me  from  you,  or  it  may  be  from 

elsewhere, 
Strong  contemptuous  resolve;  I  forget,  and  I  bound  as 

across  it. 
But  after  all,  you  know,  it  may  be  a  dangerous  river. 

Oh,  if  it  were  so,  Elspie,  he  said,  I  can  carry  you  over. 
Nay,  she  replied,  you  would  tire  of  having  me  for  a 

burden. 
0  sweet  burden,  he  said,  and  are  you  not  light  as  a 

feather  ? 
But  it  is  deep,  very  likely,  she  said,  over  head  and  ears 

too. 
0  let  us  try,  he  answered,  the  waters  themselves  will 

support  us. 
Yea,  very  ripples  and  waves  will  form  to  a  boat  under- 
neath us ; 
There  is  a  boat,  he  said,  and  a  name  is  written  upon  it, 
Love,  he  said,  and  kissed  her.  — 

But  I  will  read  your  books,  though, 
Said  she :  you'll  leave  me  some,  Philip  ? 

Not  I,  replied  he,  a  volume. 
This  is  the  way  with  you  all,  I  perceive,  high  and  low 

together. 
Women  must  read,  as  if  they  didn't  know  all  beforehand : 
Weary  of  plying  the  pump,  we  turn  to  the  running  water, 
And  the  running  spring  will  needs  have  a  pump  built 

upon  it. 
Weary  and  sick  of  our  books,  we  coine  to  repose  in  your 

eyelight. 
As  to  the  woodland  and  water,  the  freshness  and  beauty 

of  Nature. 
Lo,  you  will  talk,  forsooth,  of  things  we  are  sick  to  the 

death  of. 
What,  she  said,  and  if  I  have  let  you  become  my  sweet- 
heart, 
I  am  to  read  no  books !  but  you  may  go  your  ways  then, 
And  I  will  read,  she  said,  with  my  father  at  home  as  I 

used  to. 
If  you  must  have  it,  he  said,  I  myself  will  read  them 

to  you. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     217 

Well,  she  said,  but  no,  I  will  read  to  myself,  when  I 

choose  it ; 
What,  you  suppose  we  never  read  anything  here  in  our 

Highlands, 
Bella  and  I  with  the  father,  in  all  our  winter  evenings ! 
But  we  must  go,  Mr.  Philip  — 

I  shall  not  go  at  all,  said 
He,  if  you  call  me  Mr,  —  Thank  heaven!  that's  over  for- 
ever. 
No,  but  it's  not,  she  said,  it  is  not  over,  nor  will  be. 
Was  it  not  then,  she  asked,  the  name  I  called  you  first 

by? 
No,  Mr.  Philip,  no  —  you  have  kissed  me  enough  for  two 

nights ; 
No  —  come,  Philip,  come,  or  I'll  go  myself  without  you. 
You  never  call  me  Philip,  he  answered,  until  I  kiss 

you. 
As  they  went  home  by  the  moon  that  waning  now  rose 

later. 
Stepping  through  mossy  stones  by  the  runnel  under  the 

alders. 
Loitering  unconsciously,  Philip,  she  said,  I  will  not  be  a 

lady; 
We  Avill  do  work  together  —  you  do  not  wish  me  a  lady. 
It  is  a  weakness  perhaps  and  a  foolishness ;  still  it  is  so ; 
I  have  been  used  all  my  life  to  help  myself  and  others ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  sit  and  be  waited  on  by  footmen, 
No,  not  even  by  women  — 

And  God  forbid,  he  answered, 
God  forbid  you  should  ever  be  aught  but  yourself,  my 

Elspie ! 
As  for  service,  I  love  it  not,  I ;  your  weakness  is  mine  too, 
I  am  sure  Adam  told  you  as  much  as  that  about  me. 
I  am  sure,  she  said,  he  called  you  wild  and  flighty. 
That  was  true,  he  said,  till  my  wings  were  clipped. 

But  my  Elspie, 
You  will  at  least  just  go  and  see  my  uncle  and  cousins, 
Sister,  and  brother,  and  brother's  wife.     You  should  go, 

if  you  liked  it. 
Just  as  you  are;    just  what  you  are,  at  any  rate,  my 

Elspie. 
Yes,  we  will  go,  and  give  the  old  solemn  gentility  stage- 
play 


218  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

One  little  look,  to  leave  it  with  all  the  more  satisfaction. 
That  may  be,  my  Philip,  she  said ;  you  are  good  to 

think  of  it. 
But  we  are  letting  our  fancies  run  on  indeed;  after  all,  it 
May  all  come,  you  know,  Mr.  Philip,  to  nothing  whatever, 
There  is  so  much  that  needs  to  be  done,  so  much  that 

may  happen. 
All  that  needs  to  be  done,  said  he,  shall  be  done,  and 

quickly. 
And  on  the  morrow  he  took  good  heart,  and  spoke  with 

David. 
Not  unwarned  the  father,  nor  had  been  unperceiving : 
Fearful  much,  but  in  all  from  the  first  reassured  by  the 

Tutor. 
And  he  remembered  how  he  had  fancied  the  lad  from  the 

first;  and 
Then,  too,  the  old  man's  eye  was  much  more  for  inner 

than  outer. 
And  the  natural  tune  of  his  heart  without  misgiving 
Went  to  the  noble  words  of  that  grand  song  of  the  Low- 
lands, 
Rank  is  the  guinea  stamp,  but  the  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
Still  he  was  doubtful,  would  hear  nothing  of  it  now,  but 

insisted 
Philip  should  go  to  his  books;  if  he  chose,  he  might 

write ;  if  after 
Chose  to  return,  might  come ;   he  truly  believed  him 

honest. 
But  a  year  must  elapse,  and  many  things  might  happen. 
Yet  at  the  end  he  burst  into  tears,  called  Elspie,  and 

blessed  them : 
Elspie,  my  bairn,  he  said,  I  thought  not  when  at  the 

doorway 
Standing  with  you,  and  telling  the  young  man  where  he 

would  find  us, 
I  did  not  think  he  would  one  day  be  asking  me  here  to 

surrender 
What  is  to  me  more  than  wealth  in  my  Bothie  of  Tober- 

na-vuolich. 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER~NA-VUOLICH.     219 

IX. 

Arva,  beata  Petamus  arva  ! 

So  on  the  morrow's  morrow,  with  Term-time  dread  re- 
turning, 

Philip  returned  to  his  books,  and  read,  and  remained  at 
Oxford, 

All  the  Christmas  and  Easter  remained  and  read  at  Ox- 
ford. 
Great  was  wonder  in  College  when  postman  showed  to 
butler 

Letters  addressed  to  David  Mackaye,  at  Tober-na-vuolich, 

Letter  on  letter,  at  least  one  a  week,  one  every  Sunday  : 
Great  at  that  Highland  post  was  wonder  too  and  con- 
jecture, 

When  the  postman  showed  letters  to  wife,  and  wife  to 
the  lassies, 

And  the  lassies  declared  they  couldn't  be  really  to  David ; 

Yes,  they  could  see  inside  a  paper  with  E.  upon  it. 

Great  was  surmise  in  College  at  breakfast,  wine,  and 
supper, 

Keen  the  conjecture  and  joke  ;  but  Adam  kept  the  secret, 

Adam  the  secret  kept,  and  Philip  read  like  fury. 

This  is  a  letter  written  by  Philip  at  Christmas  to  Adam. 

There  may  be  beings,  perhaps,  whose  vocation  it  is  to  be 
idle, 

Idle,  sumptuous  even,  luxurious,  if  it  must  be  : 

Only  let  each  man  seek  to  be  that  for  which  nature  meant 
him. 

If  you  were  meant  to  plough,  Lord  Marquis,  out  with  you, 
and  do  it ; 

If  you  Avere  meant  to  be  idle,  0  beggar,  behold,  I  will 
feed  you. 

If  you  were  born  for  a  groom,  and  you  seem,  by  your  dress, 
to  believe  so. 

Do  it  like  a  man.  Sir  George,  for  pay,  in  a  livery  stable ; 

Yes,  you  may  so  release  that  slip  of  a  boy  at  the  corner ; 

Fingering  books  at  the  window,  misdoubting  the  eighth 
commandment. 

Ah,  fair  Lady  Maria,  God  meant  you  to  live  and  be  lovely ; 

Be  so  then,  and  I  bless  you.     But  ye,  ye  spurious  ware, 
who 


220  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Might  be  plain  women,  and  can  be  by  no  possibility  better ! 

—  Ye  unliappy  statuettes,  and  miserable  trinkets, 

Poor  alabaster  chimney-piece  ornaments  under  glass  cases, 

Come,  in  God's  name,  come  down !  the  very  French  clock 
by  you 

Puts  you  to  shame  with  ticking ;  the  fire-irons  deride  you. 

You,  young  girl,  who  have  had  such  advantages,  learnt  so 
quickly. 

Can  you  not  teach  ?     0  yes,  and  she  likes  Sunday-school 
extremely, 

Only  it's  soon  in  the  morning.     Away !  if  to  teach  be  your 
calling. 

It  is  no  play,  but  a  business :  off !  go  teach  and  be  paid 
for  it. 

Lady  Sophia's  so  good  to  the  sick,  so  firm  and  so  gentle. 

Is  there  a  nobler  sphere  than  of  hospital  nurse  and  matron  ? 

Hast  thou  for  cooking  a  turn,  little  Lady  Clarissa?  in  with 
them, 

In  with  your  fingers !  their  beauty  it  spoils,  but  your  own 
it  enhances 

For  it  is  beautiful  only  to  do  the  thing  we  are  meant  for. 
This  was  the  answer  that  came  from  the  Tutor,  the 
grave  man,  Adam. 

When  the  armies  are  set  in  array,  and  the  battle  begin- 
ning, 

Is  it  well  that  the  soldier  whose  post  is  far  to  the  leftward 

Say,  I  will  go  to  the  right,  it  is  there  I  shall  do  best  service  ? 

There  is  a  great  Field-Marshal,  my  friend,  who  arrays  our 
battalions ; 

Let  us  to  Providence  trust,  and  abide  and  work  in  our 
stations. 
This  was  the  final  retort  from  the  eager,  impetuous 
Philip. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  your  Providence  puzzles  me  sadly ; 

Children  of  Circumstance  are  we  to  be?  you  answer,  On 
no  wise ! 

Where  does  Circumstance  end,  and  Providence,  where  be- 
gins it? 

What  are  we  to  resist,  and  what  are  we  to  be  friends  with  ? 

If  there  is  battle,  'tis  battle  by  night,  I  stand  in  the  dark- 
ness, 

Here  in  the  m§l^e  of  men,  Ionian  and  Dorian  on  both 
sides, 


THE  BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     221 

Signal  and  password  known ;  which  is  friend  and  which 

is  foeiuan  ? 
Is  it  a  friend  ?     I  doubt,  though  he  speak  with  the  voice 

of  a  brother. 
Still  you  are  right,  I  suppose ;  you  always  are,  and  will  be ; 
Though  I  mistrust  the  Field-Marshal,  I  bow  to  the  duty 

of  order. 
Yet  is  my  feeling  rather  to  ask,  where  is  the  battle  ? 
Yes,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  cry,  notwithstanding  my 

Elspie, 
O  that  the  armies  indeed  were  arrayed!     0  joy  of  the 

onset ! 
Sound,  thou  Trumpet  of  God,  come  forth,  Great  Cause,  to 

array  us. 
King  and  leader  apj)ear,  thy  soldiers  sorrowing  seek  thee. 
Would  that  the  armies  indeed  were  arrayed,  0  where  is 

the  battle ! 
Neither  battle  I  see,  nor  arraying,  nor  King  in  Israel, 
Only  infinite  jumble  and  mess  and  dislocation. 
Backed  by  a  solemn  appeal,  '  For  God's  sake,  do  not  stir, 

there!' 
Yet  you  are  right,  I  suppose ;  if  you  don't  attack  my  con- 
clusion, 
Let  us  get  on  as  we  can,  and  do  the  thing  we  are  fit  for; 
Every  one  for  himself,  and  the  common  success  for  us 

all,  and 
Thankful,  if  not  for  our  o\vn,  why  then  for  the  triumph 

of  others. 
Get  along,  each  as  we  can,  and  do  the  thing  we  are  meant 

for. 
That  isn't  likely  to  be  by  sitting  still,  eating  and  drinking. 
These  are  fragments  again  without  date  addressed  to 

Adam. 
As  at  return  of  tide  the  total  weight  of  ocean. 
Drawn  by  moon  and  sun  from  Labrador  and  Greenland, 
Sets-in  amain,  in  the  open  space  betwixt  Mull  and  Scarba, 
Heaving,  swelling,  spreading   the  might  of  the  mighty 

Atlantic ; 
There  into  cranny  and  slit  of  the  rocky,  cavernous  bottom 
Settles  down,  and  with  dimples  huge  the  smooth  sea-sur- 
face 
Eddies,  coils,  and  whirls ;  by  dangerous  Corry vreckan : 
So  in  my  soul  of  souls,  through  its  cells  and  secret  recesses, 


222  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Comes  back,  swelling  and  spreading,  the  old  democratic 
fervour. 
But  as  the  light  of  day  enters  some  populous  city, 
Shaming  away,  ere  it  come,  by  the  chilly  day-streak  sig- 
nal, 
High  and  low,  the  misusers  of  night,  shaming  out  the  gas- 
lamps  — 
All  the  great  empty  streets  are  flooded  with  broadening 

clearness. 
Which,  withal,  by  inscrutable  simultaneous  access 
Permeates  far  and  pierces  to  the  very  cellars  lying  in 
Narrow  high  back-lane,  and  court,  and  alley  of  alleys  :  — 
He  that  goes  forth  to  his  walks,  while  speeding  to  the 

suburb. 
Sees  sights  only  peaceful  and  pure ;  as  labourers  settling 
Slowly  to  work,  in  their  limbs  the  lingering  sweetness  of 

slumber  ; 
Humble  market-carts,  coming  in,  bringing  in,  not  only 
Flower,  fruit,  farm-store,  but  sounds  and  sights  of  the 

country 
Dwelling  yet  on  the  sense  of  the  dreamy  drivers ;  soon 

after 
Half-awake  servant-maids  unfastening  drowsy  shutters 
Up  at  the  windows,  or  down,  letting-in  the  air  by  the 

doorway ; 
School-boys,  school-girls  soon,  with  slate,  portfolio,  satchel, 
Hampered  as   they  haste,  those   running,  these  others 

maidenly  tripping; 
Early  clerk  anon  turning  out  to  stroll,  or  it  may  be 
Meet  his  sweetheart  —  waiting  behind  the  garden  gate 

there; 
Merchant  on  his  grass-plat  haply  bare-headed;  and  now 

by  this  time 
Little  child  bringing  breakfast  to '  father '  that  sits  on  the 

timber 
There  by  the  scaffolding ;  see,  she  waits  for  the  can  beside 

him ; 
Meantime  above  purer  air  untarnished  of  new-lit  fires : 
So  that  the  whole  great  wicked  artificial  civilised  fabric  — 
All  its  unfinished  houses,  lots  for  sale,  and  railway  out- 
works — 
Seems  reaccepted,  resumed  toPrimal  Nature  and  Beauty :  — 
—  Such  —  in  me,  and  to  me,  and  on  me  the  love  of  Elspie  I 


THE  BOTHIE   OF  TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     223 

Philip  retiirned  to  his  books,  but  returned  to  his  High- 
lands after ; 
Got  a  first,  'tis  said;  a  winsome  bride,  'tis  certain. 
There  while  courtship  was  ending,  nor  yet  the  wedding 

appointed, 
Under  her  father  he  studied  the  handling  of  hoe  and  of 

hatchet: 
Thither  that  summer  succeeding  came  Adam  and  Arthur 

to  see  him 
Down  by  the  lochs  from  the  distant  Glenmorison  ;  Adam 

the  tutor, 
Arthur,  and  Hope;  and  the  Piper  anon  who  was  there 

for  a  visit ; 
He  had  been  into  the  schools;  plucked  almost ;  all  biit  a 

gone-coon  ; 
So  he  declared;  never  once  had  brushed  up  his   hairy 

Aldrich ; 
Into  the  great  might-have-been  upsoaring  sublime  and 

ideal 
Gave  to  historical  questions  a  free  poetical  treatment; 
Leaving  vocabular  ghosts  undisturbed  in  their  lexicon- 
limbo. 
Took  Aristophanes  up  at  a  shot ;  and  the  whole  three  last 

weeks 
Went,  in  his  life  and  the  sunshine  rejoicing,  to  Nuneham 

and  Godstowe: 
What  were  the  claims  of  Degree  to  those  of  life  and  the 

sunshine  ? 
There  did  the  four  find  Philip,  the  poet,  the  speaker,  the 

Chartist, 
Delving  at  Highland  soil,  and  railing  at  Highland  land- 
lords, 
Railing,  but  more,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  fun  of  the  Piper's 

fury. 
There   saw   they   David  and  Elspie  Mackaye,  and  the 

Piper  was  almost. 
Almost  deeply  in  love  with  Bella  the  sister  of  Elspie ; 
But  the  good  Adam  was  heedful :  they  did  not  go  too  often. 
There  in  the  bright  October,  the  gorgeous  bright  October, 
When  the  brackens  are  changed,  and  heather  blooms  are 

faded, 
And   amid   russet  of  heather  and  fern  green  trees  are 

bonnie, 


224  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Alders  are  green,  and  oaks,  the  rowan  scarlet  and  yellow, 
Heavy  the  aspen,  and  heavy  with  jewels  of  gold  the  birch 

tree. 
There,  when  shearing  had  eiided,  and  barley-stooks  were 

garnered, 
David  gave  Philip  to  wife  his  daughter,  his  darling  Elspie ; 
Elspie  the  quiet,  the  brave,  was  wedded  to  Philip  the  poet. 
So  won  Philip  his  bride.     They  are  married  and  gone 

—  But  oh,  Thou 
Mighty  one.  Muse  of  great  Epos,  and  Idyll  the  playful 

and  tender. 
Be  it  recounted  in  song,  ere  we  part,  and  thou  fly  to  thy 

Pindus, 
(Pindus  is  it,  0  Muse,  or  ^tna,  or  even  Ben-nevis  ?) 
Be  it  recounted  in  song,  0  Muse  of  the  Epos  and  Idyll, 
Who  gave  what  at  the  wedding,  the  gifts  and  fair  gratu- 

lations. 
Adam,  the  grave  careful  Adam,  a  medicine  chest  and 

tool-box, 

Hope  a  saddle,  and  Arthur  a  plough,  and  the  Piper  a  rifle, 

Airlie  a  necklace  for  Elspie,  and  Hobbes  a  Family  Bible, 

Airlie  a  necklace,  and  Hobbes  a  Bible  and  iron  bedstead. 

What  was  the  letter,  0  Muse,  sent  withal  by  the  cor- 

l)ulent  hero  ? 
This  is  the  letter  of  Hobbes,  the  kilted  and  corpulent  hero. 
So  the  last  speech  and  confession  is  made,  O  my  elo- 
quent speaker ! 
So  the  good  time  is  coming,  or  come  is  it  ?  0  my  Chartist ! 
So  the  cathedral  is  finished  at  last,  O  my  Pugin  of  women ; 
Finished,  and  now,  is  it  true  ?  to  be  taken  out  whole  to 

New  Zealand! 
Well,  go  forth  to  thy  field,  to  thy  barley,  with  Ruth,  O 

13oaz, 
Ruth,  who  for  thee  hath  deserted  her  people,  her  gods, 

her  mountains. 
Go,  as  in  Ephrath  of  old,  in  the  gate  of  Bethlehem  said 

they, 
Go,  be  the  wife  in  thy  house  both  Rachel  and  Leah  unto 

thee; 
Be  thy  wedding  of  silver,  albeit  of  iron  thy  bedstead ! 
Yea,  to  the  full  golden  fifty  renewed  be !  and  fair  memo- 
randa 
Happily  fill  the  fly-leaves  duly  left  in  the  Family  Bible. 


THE  BOTIIIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH.     225 

Live,  and  when  Hobbes  is  forgotten,  mayst  thou,  an  nn- 

roasted  Grandsire, 
See  thy  children's  children,  and  Democracy  upon  New 

Zealand ! 
This  was  the  letter  of  Hobbes,  and  this  the  postscript 

after. 
Wit  in  the  letter  will  prate,  but  wisdom  speaks  in  a  post- 
script ; 
Listen  to  wisdom —  Which  things — you  perhaps  didn't 

know,  my  dear  fellow, 
I  have  reflected ;    Which  things  are  an  allegory,  Philip. 
For  this  Rachel-and-Leah  is  marriage ;  which,  I  have  seen 

it, 
Lo,  and  have  known  it,  is  always,  and  must  be,  bigamy 

only. 
Even  in  noblest  kind  a  duality,  compound,  and  complex. 
One  part  heavenly-ideal,  the  other  vulgar  and  earthy : 
For  this  Rachel-and-Leah  is  marriage,  and  'Laban,  their 

father, 
Circumstance,  chance,  the  world,  our  uncle  and  hard  task- 
master. 
Rachel  we  found  as  we  fled  from  the  daughters  of  Heth 

by  the  desert : 
Rachel  we  met  at  the  well ;  we  came,  we  saw,  we  kissed 

her ; 
Rachel  we  serve-for,  long  years,  —  that  seem  as  a  few 

days  only, 
E'en  for  the  love  we  have  to  her,  —  and  win  her  at  last 

of  Laban. 
Is  it  not  Rachel  we  take  in  our  joy  from  the  hand  of  her 

father  ? 
Is  it  not  Rachel  we  lead  in  the  mystical  veil  from  the 

altar  ? 
Rachel  we  dream-of  at  night :  in  the  morning,  behold,  it 

is  Leah. 
'  Nay,  it  is  custom,'  saith  Laban,  the  Leah  indeed  is  the 

elder. 
Happy  and  wise  who  consents  to  redouble  his  service  to 

Laban, 
So,  fulfilling  her  week,  he  may  add  to  the  elder  the 

younger, 
Not  repudiates  Leah,  but  wins  the  Rachel  unto  her ! 
Neither  hate  thou  thy  Leah,  my  Jacob,  she  also  is  worthy; 


226  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

So,  many  days  shall  thy  Eachel  have  joy,  and  survive  her 

sister ; 
Yea,  and  her  children —  WJiich  things  are  an  allegoi'y, 

Philip, 
Aye,  and  by  Origen's  head  with  a  vengeance  truly,  a  long 

one! 
This  was  a  note  from  the  Tutor,  the  grave  man,  nick- 
named Adam. 
I  shall  see  you  of  course,  my  Philip,  before  your  departure. 
Joy  be  with  you,  my  boy,  with  you  and  your  beautiful 

Elspie. 
Happy  is  he  that  found,  and  finding  was  not  heedless ; 
Happy  is  he  that  found,  and  happy  the  friend  that  was 

with  him. 
So  won  Philip  his  bride :  — 

They  are  married  and  gone  to  New  Zealand. 
Five  hundred  pounds  in  pocket,  with  books,  and  two  or 

three  pictures. 
Tool-box,  plough,  and  the  rest,  they  rounded  the  sphere 

to  New  Zealand. 
There  he  hewed,  and  dug;  subdued  the  earth  and  his 

spirit ; 
There  he  built  him  a  home ;  there  Elspie  bare  him  his 

children, 
David  and  Bella ;  perhaps  ere  this  too  an  Elspie  or  Adam ; 
There  hath  he  farmstead  and  land,  and  fields  of  corn  and 

flax  fields ; 
And  the  Antipodes  too  have  a  Bothie  of  Tober-na-vuolich. 


IDYLLIC   SKETCHES. 


oloio 


ITE  DOMUM   SATUK^,  VENIT   HESPEEUS. 

The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper  snow 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie), 
The  rainy  clouds  are  filing  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall  we. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

Ah  dear,  and  where  is  he,  a  year  agone. 

Who  stepped  beside  and  cheered  us  on  and  on  ? 

My  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from  me, 

In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea. 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the  sky 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie), 
And  through  the  vale  the  rains  go  sweeping  by ; 
Ah  me,  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be  ? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel  they 
O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign  seas  that  stray 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie). 
And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to  mind 
The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  behind  ? 
And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering  see 
The  feeding  kine,  and  doth  he  think  of  me. 
My  sweetheart  wandering  wheresoe'er  it  be  ? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to  snow 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie), 
227 


228  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  below. 
Heigho !  but  soon  in  shelter  shall  we  be  : 
Home,  Kose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped, 
Some  eomelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish  to  wed  ? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie.) 
For  weary  is  Avork,  and  weary  day  by  day 
To  have  your  comfort  miles  on  miles  away. 
Home,  E/Ose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall  find  my  mate. 
And  he  returning  see  himself  too  late  ? 
For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we  see, 
And  God,  He  knows,  and  what  must  be,  must  be, 
When  sweethearts  wander  far  away  from  me. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

The  sky  behind  is  brightening  up  anew 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  Jja  Palie), 
The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journey  too : 
Heigho !  aha !  for  here  at  home  are  we :  — 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 


A  LONDON  IDYLL. 

On  grass,  on  gravel,  in  the  sun, 

Or  now  beneath  the  shade. 
They  went,  in  pleasant  Kensington, 

A  prentice  and  a  maid. 

That  Sunday  morning's  April  glow, 

How  should  it  not  impart 
A  stir  about  the  veins  that  flow 

To  feed  the  youthful  heart. 

Ah !  years  may  come,  and  years  may  bring 

The  truth  that  is  not  bliss. 
But  will  they  bring  another  thing 

That  can  compare  with  this  ? 


IDYLLIC  SKETCHES.  229 

I  read  it  in  that  arm  she  lays 

So  soft  on  his ;  her  mien, 
Her  step,  her  very  gown  betrays 

(What  in  her  eyes  were  seen) 
That  not  in  vain  the  young  buds  round, 

The  cawing  birds  above. 
The  air,  the  incense  of  the  ground, 

Are  whispering,  breathing  love. 

Ah !  years  may  come,  &c. 

To  inclination,  young  and  blind, 

So  perfect,  as  they  lent. 
By  purest  innocence  confined 

Unconscious  free  consent. 
Persuasive  power  of  vernal  change, 

On  this,  thine  earliest  day, 
Canst  thou  have  found  in  all  thy  range 

One  fitter  type  than  they  ? 

Ah !  years  may  come,  &c. 

Th'  high-titled  cares  of  adult  strife, 

Which  we  our  duties  call. 
Trades,  arts,  and  politics  of  life,  ^ 

Say,  have  they  after  all. 
One  other  object,  end  or  use 

Than  that,  for  girl  and  boy. 
The  punctual  earth  may  still  produce 

This  golden  flower  of  joy  ? 

Ah !  years  may  come,  &c. 

O  odours  of  new-budding  rose, 
0  lily's  chaste  perfume, 

0  fragrance  that  didst  first  unclose 
The  young  Creation's  bloom  ! 

Ye  hang  around  me,  while  in  sun 
Anon  and  now  in  shade, 

1  watched  in  pleasant  Kensington 
The  prentice  and  the  maid. 


230  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Ah !  years  may  come,  and  years  may  bring 

The  truth  that  is  not  bliss, 
But  will  they  bring  another  thing 

That  will  compare  with  this  ? 


NATURA  NATURANS.^ 

Beside  me, — in  the  car,  —  she  sat, 

She  spake  not,  no,  nor  looked  to  me : 
From  her  to  me,  from  me  to  her. 

What  passed  so  subtly,  stealthily  ? 
As  rose  to  rose  that  by  it  blows 

Its  interchanged  aroma  flings ; 
Or  wake  to  sound  of  one  sweet  note 

The  virtues  of  disparted  strings. 

Beside  me,  nought  but  this  !  —  but  this, 

That  influent  as  within  me  dwelt 
Her  life,  mine  too  within  her  breast. 
Her  brain,  her  every  limb  she  felt : 
*  We  sat ;  while  o'er  and  in  us,  more 

And  more,  a  jxjwer  unknown  prevailed, 
Inhaling,  and  inhaled,  —  and  still 
I  'Twas  one,  inhaling  or  inhaled. 

Beside  me,  nought  but  this ;  —  and  passed ; 

I  passed ;  and  know  not  to  this  day 
If  gold  or  jet  her  girlish  hair. 

If  black,  or  brown,  or  lucid-grey 
Her  eye's  young  glance :  the  fickle  chance 

That  joined  us,  yet  may  join  again ; 
But  I  no  face  again  could  greet 

As  hers,  whose  life  was  in  me  then. 

As  unsuspecting  mere  a  maid 

As,  fresh  in  maidhood's  bloomiest  bloom, 
In  casual  second-class  did  e'er 

By  casual  youth  her  seat  assume ; 

1  This  poem  is  reprinted  from  the  volume  called  Amharvalia, 


IDYLLIC   SKETCHES.  231 

Or  vestal,  say,  of  saintliest  clay, 

For  once  by  balmiest  airs  betrayed 
Unto  emotions  too,  too  SAveet 

To  be  unlingeringly  gainsaid : 

Unowning  then,  confusing  soon 

With  dreamier  dreams  that  o'er  the  glass 
Of  shyly  ripening  woman-sense 

Reflected,  scarce  reflected,  pass, 
A  wife  maybe,  a  mother  she 

In  Hymen's  shrine  recalls  not  now, 
She  first  in  hour,  ah,  not  profane. 

With  me  to  Hymen  learnt  to  bow. 

Ah  no !  —  Yet  owned  we,  fused  in  one, 

The  Power  which  e'en  in  stones  and  earths 
By  blind  elections  felt,  in  forms 

Organic  breeds  to  myriad  births  ; 
By  lichen  small  on  granite  wall 

Approved,  its  faintest  feeblest  stir 
Slow-spreading,  strengthening  long,  at  last 

Vibrated  full  in  me  and  her. 

In  me  and  her  —  sensation  strange ! 
The  lily  grew  to  pendent  head. 

To  vernal  airs  the  mossy  bank- 
Its  sheeny  primrose  spangles  spread, 

In  roof  o'er  roof  of  shade  sun-proof 
Did  cedar  strong  itself  outclimb. 

And  altitude  of  aloe  proud 

Aspire  in  floreal  crown  sublime ; 

Flashed  flickering  forth  fantastic  flies, 

Big  bees  their  burly  bodies  swung, 
Rooks  roused  with  civic  din  the  elms, 

And  lark  its  wild  reveillez  rung ; 
In  Libyan  dell  the  light  gazelle, 

The  leopard  lithe  in  Indian  glade. 
And  dolphin,  briglitening  tropic  seas. 

In  us  were  living,  leapt  and  played  : 

Their  shells  did  slow  Crustacea  build, 
Their  gilded  skins  did  snakes  renew. 


232  CLOUGH'S   POEMS. 

While  mightier  spines  for  loftier  kind 
Their  types  in  amplest  limbs  outgrew ; 

Yea,  close  comprest  in  human  breast, 
What  moss,  and  tree,  and  livelier  thing, 

What  Earth,  Sun,  Star  of  force  possest. 
Lay  budding,  burgeoning  forth  for  Spring. 

Such  sweet  preluding  sense  of  old 

Led  on  in  Eden's  sinless  place 
The  hour  when  bodies  human  first 

Combined  the  primal  prime  embrace, 
Such  genial  heat  the  blissful  seat 

In  man  and  woman  owned  unblamed, 
When,  naked  both,  its  garden  paths 

They  walked  unconscious,  unashamed : 

Ere,  clouded  yet  in  mistiest  dawn, 

Above  the  horizon  dusk  and  dun. 
One  mountain  crest  with  light  had  tipped 

That  orb  that  is  the  Spirit's  Sun ; 
Ere  dreamed  young  flowers  in  vernal  showers 

Of  fruit  to  rise  the  flower  above. 
Or  ever  yet  to  young  Desire 

Was  told  the  mystic  name  of  Love. 


AMOURS  DE  VOYAGE. 


=>>»;<= 


Oh,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio, 
And  taste  with  a  distempered  appetite  I 

Shaksfeaue. 

II  doutait  de  tout,  meme  de  Vamour. 

French  Novel. 

Solvitur  ambulando. 

SOLUTIO  SOPHISMATUM. 

Flevit  amoves 
Nan  elaboratum  ad  pedem. 

Horace. 

Canto    I. 

Over  the  great  ivindy  waters,  and  over  the  clear-crested 
summits, 
Unto  the  sun  and  the  sky,  and  unto  the  perfecter  earth. 
Come,  let  zis  go,  —  to  a  land  wherein  gods  of  the  old  time 
wandered, 
WJiere  every  breath  even  now  changes  to  ether  divine. 
Come,  let  us  go;    though  ivithal  a  voice  whisper,   '  TJie 
world  that  we  live  in, 
Wliithersoever  ice  turn,  still  is  the  same  narrow  crib ; 
'Tis  but  to  prove  limitation,  and  measure  a  cord,  that  we 
travel; 
Let  who  would  'scape  and  be  free  go  to  his  chamber  and 
think  ; 
'Tis  but  to  change  idle  fancies  for  memories  wilfully  falser ; 
'Tis  but  to  go  and  have  been.'  —  Come,  little  bark!  let 
us  go. 

283 


234  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 


I.     CLAUDE    TO    EUSTACE. 


Dear  Eustatio,  I  write  that  you  may  write  me  an  answer, 
Or  at  the  least  to  put  us  again  en  rajyport  with  each  other. 
Rome  disappoints  me  much,  —  St.  Peter's,  perhaps,   in 

especial ; 
Only  the  Arch  of  Titus  and  view  from  the  Lateran  please 

me : 
This,   however,  perhaps  is  the  weather,  which  truly  is 

horrid. 
Greece  must  be  better,  surely ;  and  yet  I  am  feeling  so 

spiteful, 
That  I  could  travel  to  Athens,  to  Delphi,  and  Troy,  and 

Mount  Sinai, 
Though  but  to  see  with  my  eyes  that  these  are  vanity  also. 
Rome  disappoints  me  much;  I  hardly  as  yet   under- 
stand, but 
Ruhhishy  seems  the  word  that  most  exactly  would  suit  it. 
All  the  foolish  destructions,  and  all  the  sillier  savings. 
All  the  incongruous  things  of  past  incompatible  ages. 
Seem  to  be  treasured  up  here  to  make  fools  of  present 

and  future. 
Would  to  Heaven  the  old  Goths  had  made  a  cleaner 

sweep  of  it ! 
Would  to  Heaven  some  new  ones  would  come  and  destroy 

these  churches ! 
However,  one  can  live  in  Rome  as  also  in  London. 
It  is  a  blessing,  no  doubt,  to  be  rid,  at  least  for  a  time,  of 
All  one's  friends  and  relations,  —  yourself  (forgive  me !) 

included,  — 
All  the  assujettissement  of  having  been  what  one  has  been, 
What  one  thinks  one  is,  or  thinks  that  others  suppose  one ; 
Yet,  in  despite  of  all,  we  turn  like  fools  to  the  English. 
Vernon  has  been  my  fate ;  who  is  here  the  same  that  you 

knew  him, 
Making  the  tour,  it  seems,  with  friends  of  the  name  of 

Trevellyn. 

II.    CLAUDE  TO   EUSTACE. 

Rome  disappoints  me  still ;  but  I  shrink  and  adapt  my- 
self to  it. 


AMOURS  DE   VOYAGE.  236 

» 

Somehow  a  tyrannous  sense  of  a  superincumbent  oppres- 
sion 

Still,  wherever  I  go,  accompanies  ever,,  and  makes  me 

Feel  like  a  tree  (shall  I  say  ?)  buried  under  a  ruin  of 
brickwork. 

Rome,  believe  me,  my  friend,  is  like  its  own  Monte 
Testaceo, 

Merely  a  marvellous  mass  of  broken  and  castaway  wine- 
pots. 

Ye  gods !  what  do  I  want  with  this  rubbish  of  ages 
departed, 

Things  that  Nature  abhors,  the  experiments  that  she  has 
failed  in  ? 

What  do  I  find  in  the  Forum  ?  An  archway  and  two  or 
three  pillars. 

Well,  but  St.  Peter's  ?  Alas,  Bernini  has  filled  it  with 
sculpture ! 

No  one  can  cavil,  I  grant,  at  the  size  of  the  great 
Coliseum. 

Doubtless  the  notion  of  grand  and  capacious  and  massive 
amusement. 

This  the  old  Romans  had;  but  tell  me,  is  this  an  idea  ? 

Yet  of  solidity  much,  but  of  splendour  little  is  extant : 

'  Brickwork  I  found  thee,  and  marble  I  left  thee ! '  their 
Emperor  vaunted ; 

'  Marble  I  thought  thee,  and  brickwork  I  find  thee ! '  the 
Tourist  may  answer. 

III.  GEORGINA  TBEVELLYN  TO  LOUISA  . 


At  last,  dearest  Louisa,  I  take  up  my  pen  to  address 

you. 
Here  we  are,  you  see,  with  the  seven-and-seventy  boxes, 
Courier,  Papa  and  Mamma,  the  children,  and  Mary  and 

Susan : 
Here  we  all  are  at  Rome,  and  delighted  of  course  with 

St.  Peter's, 
And  very  pleasantly  lodged  in  the  famous  Piazza  di 

Spagna. 
Rome  is  a  wonderful  place,  but  Mary  shall  tell  you 

about  it ; 
Not  very  gay,  however;  the  English  are  mostly  at  Naples; 
There  are  the  A.'s,  we  hear,  and  most  of  the  W.  party. 


236  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

« 
George,  however,  is  come ;    did  I  tell  you  about  his 

mustachios  ? 
Dear,  I  must  really  stop,  for  the  carriage,  they  tell  nie,  is 

waiting ; 
Mary  will  finish ;    and  Susan  is  writing,  they  say,  to 

Sophia. 
Adieu,  dearest  Louise,  —  evermore  your  faithful  Georgina. 
Who  can  a  Mr.  Claude  be  whom  George  has  taken  to  be 

with? 
Very  stupid,  I  think,  but  George  says  so  very  clever. 

IV.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

No,  the  Christian  faith,  as  at  any  rate  I  understood  it. 
With  its  humiliations  and  exaltations  combining, 
Exaltations  sublime,  and  yet  diviner  abasements, 
Aspirations  from  something  most  shameful  here  upon 

earth  and 
In  our  poor  selves  to  something  most  perfect  above  in  the 

heavens,  — 
No,  the  Christian  faith,  as  I,  at  least,  understood  it. 
Is  not  here,  0  Rome,  in  any  of  these  thy  churches ; 
Is  not  here,  but  in  Freiburg,  or  Rheims,  or  Westminster 

Abbey. 
What  in  thy  Dome  I  find,  in  all  thy  recenter  efforts. 
Is  a  something,  I  think,  more  rational  far,  more  earthly, 
Actual,  less  ideal,  devout  not  in  scorn  and  refusal. 
But  in  a  positive,  calm,  Stoic-Epicurean  acceptance. 
This  I  begin  to  detect  in  St.  Peter's  and  some  of  the 

churches, 
Mostly  in  all  that  I  see  of  the  sixteenth-century  masters ; 
Overlaid  of  course  with  infinite  gauds  and  gewgaws. 
Innocent,  playful  follies,  the  toys  and  trinkets  of  child- 
hood. 
Forced  on  maturer  years,  as  the  serious  one  thing  need- 
ful. 
By  the  barbarian  will  of  the  rigid  and  ignorant  Spaniard. 
Curious  work,  meantime,  re-entering  society :  how  we 
Walk   a   livelong   day,   great   Heaven,   and   watch    our 

shadows ! 
What  our  shadows  seem,  forsooth,  we  will  ourselves  be. 
Do  I  look  like  that  ?  you  think  me  that :  then  I  am  that. 


AMOURS   DE    VOYAGE.  237 


V.     CLAUDE   TO    EUSTACE. 


Luther,  they  say,  was  unwise ;  like  a  half-taught  Ger- 
man, he  could  not 

See  that  old  follies  were  passing  most  tranquilly  out  of 
remembrance ; 

Leo  the  Tenth  was  employing  all  efforts  to  clear  out  abuses; 

Jupiter,  Juno,  and  Venus,  Fine  Arts,  and  Fine  Letters, 
the  Poets, 

Scholars,  and  Sculptors,  and  Painters,  were  quietly  clear- 
ing away  the 

Martyrs,  and  Virgins,  and  Saints,  or  at  any  rate  Thomas 
Aquinas : 

He  must  forsooth  make  a  fuss  and  distend  his  huge  Wit- 
tenberg lungs,  and 

Bring  back  Theology  once  yet  again  in  a  flood  upon 
Europe : 

Lo  you,  for  forty  days  from  the  windows  of  heaven  it 
fell;  the 

Waters  prevail  on  the  earth  yet  more  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty; 

Are  they  abating  at  last  ?  the  doves  that  are  sent  to  ex- 
plore are 

Wearily  fain  to  return,  at  the  best  with  a  leaflet  of 
promise,  — 

Fain  to  return,  as  they  went,  to  the  wandering  wave-tost 
vessel,  — 

Fain  to  re-enter  the  roof  which  covers  the  clean  and  the 
unclean,  — 

Luther,  they  say,  was  Tinwise ;  he  didn't  see  how  things 
were  going ; 

Luther  was  foolish, — but,  0  great  God!  what  call  you 
Ignatius  ? 

0  my  tolerant  soul,  be  still !  but  you  talk  of  barbarians, 

Alaric,  Attila,  Genseric ;  —  why,  they  came,  they  killed, 
they 

Ravaged,  and  went  on  their  way ;  but  these  vile,  tyran- 
nous Spaniards, 

These  are  here  still,  —  how  long,  0  ye  heavens,  in  the 
country  of  Dante  ? 

These,  that  fanaticised  Europe,  which  now  can  forget 
them,  release  not 


238  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

This,  their  choicest  of  prey,  this  Italy;  here  you  see 
them,  — 

Here,  with  emasculate  pupils  and  gimcrack  churches  of 
Gesu, 

Pseudo-learning  and  lies,  confessional-boxes  and  pos- 
tures, — 

Here,  with  metallic  beliefs  and  regimental  devotions,  — 

Here,  overcrusting  with  slime,  perverting,  defacing,  de- 
basing, 

Michael  Angelo's  Dome,  that  had  hung  the  Pantheon  in 
heaven, 

Kaphael's  Joys  and  Graces,  and  thy  clear  stars,  Galileo ! 

VI.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Which  of  three  Misses  Trevellyn  it  is  that  Vernon  shall 
marry 

Is  not  a  thing  to  be  known;  for  our  friend  is  one  of 
those  natures 

Which  have  their  perfect  delight  in  the  general  tender- 
domestic  ; 

So  that  he  trifles  with  Mary's  shawl,  ties  Susan's  bonnet, 

Dances  with  all,  but  at  home  is  most,  they  say,  with 
Georgina, 

Who  is,  however,  too  silly  in  my  apprehension  for  Vernon. 

I,  as  before  when  I  wrote,  continue  to  see  them  a  little ; 

Not  that  I  like  them  much  or  care  a  bajocco  for  Vernon, 

But  I  am  slow  at  Italian,  have  not  many  English  ac- 
quaintance. 

And  I  am  asked,  in  short,  and  am  not  good  at  excuses. 

Middle-class  people  these,  bankers  very  likely,  not  wholly 

Pure  of  the  taint  of  the  shop ;  will  at  table  d'hote  and 
restaurant 

Have  their  shilling's  worth,  their  penny's  pennyworth 
even: 

Neither  man's  aristocracy  this,  nor  God's,  God  knoweth ! 

Yet  they  are  fairly  descended,  they  give  you  to  know, 
well  connected ; 

Doubtless  somewhere  in  some  neighbourhood  have,  and 
are  careful  to  keep,  some 

Threadbare-genteel  relations,  who  in  their  turn  are  en- 
chanted 

Grandly  among  county  people  to  introduce  at  assemblies 


AMOURS   DE    VOYAGE.  239 

To    the   unpennied   cadets   our  cousins   with    excellent 

fortunes. 
Neither  man's  aristocracy  this,  nor  God's,  God  knoweth  I 

VII.  CLAUDE     TO     EUSTACE. 

Ah,  what  a  shame,  indeed,  to  abuse  these  most  worthy 

people ! 
Ah,  wl;iat  a  sin  to  have  sneered  at  their  innocent  rustic 

pretensions ! 
Is  it  not  laudable  really,  this  reverent  worship  of  station  ? 
Is  it  not  fitting  that  wealth  should  tender  this  homage  to 

culture  ? 
Is  it  not  touching  to  witness  these  efforts,  if  little  availing, 
Painfully  made,  to  perform   the   old   ritual   service   of 

manners  ? 
Shall  not  devotion  atone  for  the  absence  of  knowledge  ? 

and  fervour 
Palliate,  cover,  the  fault  of  a  superstitious  observance  ? 
Dear,  dear,  what  do  I  say  ?  but,  alas !  just  now,  like  lago, 
I  can  be  nothing  at  all,  if  it  is  not  critical  wholly ; 
So  in  fantastic  height,  in  coxcomb  exultation. 
Here  in  the  garden  I  walk,  can  freely  concede  to  the 

Maker 
That  the  works  of  His  hand  are  all   very  good :    His 

creatures, 
Beast  of  the  field  and  fowl,  He  brings  them  before  me ; 

I  name  them ; 
That  which  I  name  them,  they  are,  —  the  bird,  the  beast, 

and  the  cattle. 
But  for  Adam,  —  alas,  poor  critical  coxcomb  Adam ! 
But  for  Adam  there  is  not  found  an  help-meet  for  him. 

VIII.  CLAUDE    TO    EUSTACE. 

No,  great  Dome  of  Agrippa,  thou  art  not  Christian !  canst 

not. 
Strip  and  replaster  and  daub  and  do  what  they  will  with 

thee,  be  so ! 
Here  underneath  the  great  porch  of  colossal  Corinthian 

columns, 
Here  as  I  walk,  do  I  dream  of  the  Christian  belfries 

above  them ; 


240  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Or,  on  a  bench  as  I  sit  and  abide  for  long  hours,  till  thy 

whole  vast 
Eound  grows  dim  as  in  dreams  to  my  eyes,  I  repeople  thy 

niches, 
Not  with  the  Martyrs,  and  Saints,  and  Confessors,  and 

Virgins,  and  children. 
But  with  the  mightier  forms  of  an  older,  austerer  worship; 
And  I  recite  to  myself,  how 

Eager  for  battle  here 
Stood  Vulcan,  here  matronal  Juno, 

And  with  the  bow  to  his  shoulder  faithful 
He  who  with  pure  dew  laveth  of  Castaly 
His  flowing  locks,  who  holdeth  of  Lycia 
The  oak  forest  and  the  wood  that  bore  him, 
Delos'  and  Patara's  own  Apollo.^ 

IX.     CLAUDE    TO    EUSTACE. 

Yet  it  is  pleasant,  I  own  it,  to  be  in  their  company; 

pleasant, 
Whatever  else  it  may  be,   to   abide  in  the    feminine 

presence. 
Pleasant,   but  wrong,  will  you  say?     But   this   happy, 

serene  coexistence 
Is  to  some  poor  soft  souls,  I  fear,  a  necessity  simple, 
Meat  and  drink  and  life,  and  music,  filling  with  sweet- 
ness. 
Thrilling  with  melody  sweet,  with  harmonies   strange 

overwhelming. 
All  the  long-silent  strings  of  an  awkward,  meaningless 

fabric. 
Yet  as  for  that,  I  could  live,  I  believe,  with  children; 

to  have  those 
Pure  and  delicate  forms  encompassing,  moving  about  you. 
This  were  enough,  I  could  think;  and  truly  with  glad 

resignation 
Could  from  the  dream  of  Romance,  from  the  fever  of 

flushed  adolescence, 

1  Hie  avidus  stetit 
Vulcanus,  hie  matrona  Juno,  et 
Nunquam  Inmieris  positurus  arcum ; 
Qui  rore  puro  Castaliro  lavit 
Grilles  solutos,  qui  Lycitu  tenet 
Dumeta  natalonique  silvain, 
Delias  et  Fatareus  Ax>ullu. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  241 

Look    to  escape  and  subside  into  peaceful   avuncular 

functions. 
Nephews  and  nieces !  alas,  for  as  yet  I  have  none !  and, 

moreover, 
Mothers  are  jealous,  I  fear  me,  too  often,  too  rightfully ; 

fathers 
Think   they  have  title  exclusive  to  spoiling  their  own 

little  darlings ; 
And  by  the  law  of  the  land,  in  despite  of  Malthusian 

doctrine. 
No   sort   of    proper    provision  is   made    for  that  most 

patriotic, 
Most    meritorious   subject,   the   childless   and    bachelor 

uncle. 

X.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Ye,   too,  marvellous   Twain,   that  erect   on   the   Monte 
Cavallo 

Stand  by  your  rearing  steeds  in  the  grace  of  your  motion- 
less movement. 

Stand  with  your  upstretched  arms  and  tranquil  regard- 
ant faces, 

Stand  as  instinct  with  life  in  the  might  of  immutable 
manhood,  — 

0   ye   mighty  and  strange,  ye  ancient   divine   ones   of 
Hellas. 

Are  ye  Christian  too  ?  to  convert  and  redeem  and  renew 
you, 

Will  the  brief  form  have  sufficed,  that  a  Pope  has  set 
up  on  the  apex 

Of  the  Egyptian  stone  that  o'ertops  you,  the  Christian 
symbol  ? 
And   ye,   silent,   supreme    in    serene    and    victorious 
marble. 

Ye  that  encircle  the  walls  of  the  stately  Vatican  cham- 
bers, 

Juno  and  Ceres,  Minerva,  Apollo,  the  Muses  and  Bac- 
chus, 

Ye  unto  whom  far  and  near  come  posting  the  Christian 
pilgrims, 

Ye  that  are  ranged  in  the  halls  of  the  mystic  Christian 
Pontiff, 

Are  ye  also  baptized  ?  are  ye  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  ? 


242  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Utter,  0  some  one,  the  word  that  shall  reconcile  Ancient 

and  Modern ! 
Am  I  to  turn  me  from  this  unto  thee,  great  Chapel  of 

Sixtus  ? 

XI.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

These  are  the  facts.  The  uncle,  the  elder  brother,  the 
squire  (a 

Little  embarrassed,  I  fancy),  resides  in  the  family 
place  in 

Cornwall,  of  course;  'Papa  is  in  business,'  Mary  in- 
forms me ; 

He's  a  good  sensible  man,  whatever  his  trade  is.  The 
mother 

Is  —  shall  I  call  it  fine?  —  herself  she  would  tell  you 
refined,  and 

Greatly,  I  fear  me,  looks  down  on  my  bookish  and 
maladroit  manners ; 

Somewhat  affecteth  the  blue;  would  talk  to  me  often 
of  poets; 

Quotes,  which  I  hate,  Childe  Harold ;  but  also  appreci- 
ates Wordsworth ; 

Sometimes  adventures  on  Schiller;  and  then  to  religion 
diverges ; 

Questions  me  much  about  Oxford ;  and  yet,  in  her  lofti- 
est flights  still 

Grates  the  fastidious  ear  with  the  slightly  mercantile 
accent. 

Is  it  contemptible,  Eustace — I'm  perfectly  ready  to 
think  so, — 

Is  it,  —  the  horrible  pleasure  of  pleasing  inferior  people? 

I  am  ashamed  my  own  self;  and  yet  true  it  is,  if  dis- 
graceful, 

That  for  the  first  time  in  life  I  am  living  and  moving 
with  freedom. 

I,  who  never  could  talk  to  the  people  I  meet  with  my 
uncle,  — 

I,  who  have  always  failed,  —  I,  trust  me,  can  suit  the 
Trevellyns ; 

I,  believe  me,  —  great  conquest,  am  liked  by  the  country 
bankers. 

And  1  am  glad  to  be  liked,  and  like  in  return  very  kindly. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  243 

So  it  proceeds ;  Laissez  faire,  laissez  aller,  —  such  is  tie 
watchword. 

Well,  I  know  there  are  thousands  as  pretty  and  hun- 
dreds as  pleasant, 

Girls  by  the  dozen  as  good,  and  girls  in  abundance  with 
polish 

Higher  and  manners  more  perfect  than  Susan  or  Mary 
Trevellyn, 

"Well,  I  know,  after  all,  it  is  only  juxtaposition,  — 

Juxtaposition,  in  short ;  and  what  is  juxtaposition  ? 

XII.     CLAUDE   TO    EUSTACE. 

But  I  am  in  for  it  now,  —  laissez  faire,  of  a  truth,  laissez 

aller. 
Yes,  I  am  going,  —  I  feel  it,  I  feel  and  cannot  recall  it,  — 
Fusing  with  this  thing  and  that,  entering  into  all  sorts 

of  relations. 
Tying  I  know  not  what  ties,  which,  whatever  they  are, 

I  know  one  thing. 
Will,  and  must,  woe  is  me,  be  one  day  painfully  broken,  — 
Broken  with  painful  remorses,  with  shrinkings  of  soul, 

and  relentings, 
Foolish   delays,  more  foolish  evasions,  most  foolish  re- 
newals. 
But  I  have  made  the  step,   have  quitted  the  ship  of 

Ulysses ; 
Quitted  the  sea  and  the  shore,  passed  into  the  magical 

island ; 
Yet  on  my  lips  is  the  moly,  medicinal,  offered  of  Her- 
mes. 
I    have   come   into   the   precinct,   the   labyrinth    closes 

around  me, 
Path  into  path  rounding  slyly;  I   pace  slowly  on,  and 

the  fancy. 
Struggling  awhile  to  sustain  the  long  sequences  weary, 

bewildered. 
Fain  must  collapse  in  despair;  I  yield,  I  am  lost,  and 

know  nothing; 
Yet  in  my  bosom  unbroken  remaineth  the  clue ;  I  shall 

use  it. 
Lo,  with  the  rope  on  my  loins  I  descend  through   the 

fissure;  I  sink,  yet 


244  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Inly  secure  in  the  strength  of  invisible  arms  np  above 

me; 
Still,   wheresoever   I   swing,  wherever   to   shore,  or   to 

shelf,  or 
Floor  of  cavern  untrodden,  shell  sprinkled,  enchanting, 

I  know  I 
Yet  shall  one  time  feel   the  strong  cord   tighten  about 

me, — 
Feel  it,  relentless,  upbear  me  from  spots  I  would   rest 

in ;  and  though  the 
Eope  sway  wildly,  I  faint,  crags  wound  me,  from  crag 

unto  crag  re- 
Bounding,  or,  wide  in  the  void,  I  die  ten  deaths,  ere  the 

end  I 
Yet  shall  plant  firm   foot  on  the  broad  lofty  spaces  I 

quit,  shall 
Feel   underneath   me  again   the   great  massy  strengths 

of  abstraction. 
Look  yet  abroad  from  the  height  o'er  the  sea  whose  salt 

wave  I  have  tasted. 

XIII.     GEOKGINA   TREVELLYN   TO    LOUISA   . 


Dearest  Louisa,  —  Inquire,  if  you  please,  about  Mr. 

Claude  . 

He  has  been  once  at  R.,  and  remembers  meeting  the  H.'s. 
Harriet  L.,  perhaps,  may  be  able  to  tell  you  about  him. 
It  is  an  awkward  youth,  but  still  with  very  good  man- 
ners ; 
Not  without  prospects,  we  hear ;  and,  George  says,  highly 

connected. 
Georgy  declares  it  absurd,  but  Mamma  is  alarmed,  and 

insists  he  has 
Taken  up  strange  opinions,  and  may  be  turning  a  Papist. 
Certainly  once  he  spoke  of  a  daily  service  he  went  to. 
*  Where  ?  '  we  asked,  and  he  laughed  and  answered,  '  At 

the  Pantheon.' 
This  was  a  temple,  you  know,  and  now  is  a  Catholic 

church;  and 
Though  it  is  said  that  Mazzini  has  sold  it  for  Protestant 

service, 
Yet  I  sui)pose  this  change  can  hardly  as  yet  be  effected. 
Adieu  again, — evermore,  my  dearest,  your  loving  Georgina. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  245 


P.S.  BY   MART   TREVELLYN. 

I  AM  to  tell  you,  you  say,  what  I  think  of  our  last  new 

acquaintance. 
Well,  then,  I  think  that  George  has  a  very  fair  right  to 

be  jealous. 
I  do  not  like  him  much,  though  I  do  not  dislike  being 

with  him. 
He  is  what  people  call,  I  suppose,  a  superior  man,  and 
Certainly  seems  so  to  me;   but  I  think  he  is  terribly 

selfish. 


Alba,  thoufindest  me  still,  and,  Alba,  thoujindest  me  ever, 

Noio  from  the  Capitol  steps,  now  over  Titus's  Arch, 
Here  from  the  large  grassy  spaces  that  spread  from  the  Lat- 
eral portal, 
Towering  o'er  aqueduct  lines  lost  in  perspective  between. 
Or  from  a  Vatican  ivindow,  or  bridge,  or  the  high  Coliseum, 

Clear  by  the  garlanded  line  cut  of  the  Flavian  ring. 
Beautiful  can  I  not  call  thee,  and  yet  thou  hast  power  to 
overmaster. 
Power  of  mere  beauty  ;  in  dreams,  Alba,  thou  hauntest 
me  still. 
Is  it  religion?  I  ask  me;  or  is  it  a  vain  superstition^ 

Slavery  abject  and  gross  ?  service,  too  feeble,  of  truth  ? 
Is  it  an  idol  I  boiv  to,  or  is  it  a  god  that  I  loorship  f 

Do  I  sink  back  on  the  old,  or  do  I  soar  from  the  mean  ? 
So  through  the  city   I  wander  and  qtiestion,  unsatisfied 
ever. 
Reverent  so  I  accept,  doubtful  because  I  revere. 

Canto  II. 

Is  it  illusion  ?  or  does  there  a  spirit  from  perfecter  ages. 

Here,  even  yet,  amid  loss,  change,  and  corruption  abide? 
Does  there  a  spirit  tee  know  not,  though  seek,  though  we  find, 
comprehend  not, 
Here  to  entice  and  confuse,  tempt  and  evade  us,  abide  ? 
Lives  in  the  exquisite  grace  of  the  column  disjointed  and 
single. 
Haunts  the  rude  masses  of  brick  garlanded  gaily  with  vine, 


246  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

E'en  in  the  turret  fantastic  surviving  that  springs  from  the 
ruin, 
E'en  in  the  people  itself  f  is  it  illusion  or  not  f 
Is  it  illusion  or  not  that  attracteth  the  pilgrim  transalpine, 
Brings  him  a  dullard  and  dunce  hither  to  pry  and  to 
stare  ? 
Is  it  illusion  or  not  that  allures  the  barbarian  stranger, 
Brings  him  with  gold  to  the  shrine,  brings  him  in  arms 
to  the  gate  ? 

I.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE.  ■ 

What  do  the  people  say,  and  what  does  the  government 

do  ?  —  you 
Ask,  and  I  know  not  at  all.     Yet  fortune  will  favour  your 

hopes;  and 
I,  who  avoided  it  all,  am  fated,  it  seems,  to  describe  it. 
I,  who  nor  meddle  nor  make  in  politics,  —  I  who  sincerely 
Put  not  my  trust  in  leagues  nor  any  suffrage  by  ballot. 
Never  predicted  Parisian  millenniums,  never  beheld  a 
New  Jerusalem  coming  down  dressed  like  a  bride  out  of 

heaven 
Eight  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  —  I,  nevertheless,  let 

me  say  it. 
Could  in  my  soul  of  souls,  this  day,  with  the  Gaul  at  the 

gates  shed 
One  true  tear  for  thee,  thou  poor  little  Roman  Republic ; 
What,  with  the  German  restored,  with  Sicily  safe  to  the 

Bourbon, 
Not  leave  one  poor  corner  for  native  Italian  exertion  ? 
France,  it  is  foully  done !  and  you,  poor  foolish  England, — 
You,  who  a  twelvemonth  ago  said  nation*  must  choose  for 

themselves,  you 
Could  not,  of  course,  interfere,  — you,  now,  when  a  nation 

has  chosen 

Pardon  this  folly !     The  Times  will,  of  course,  have  an- 
nounced the  occasion. 
Told  you  the  news  of  to-day ;  and  although  it  was  slightly 

in  error 
When  it  proclaimed  as  a 'fact  the  Apollo  was  sold  to  a 

Yankee, 
You  may  believe  when  it  tells  you  the  French  are  at 

Civita  Vecchia. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  247 


II.    CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Dulce  it  is,  and  decorum,  no  doubt,  for  the  country  to  fall, 

—  to 
Offer  one's  blood  an  oblation  to  Freedom,  and  die  for  the 

Cause;  yet 
Still,  individual  culture  is  also  something,  and  no  man 
Finds  quite  distinct  the  assurance  that  he  of  all  others  is 

called  on, 
Or  would  be  justified  even,  in  taking  away  from  the  world 

that 
Precious  creature,  himself.    Nature  sent  him  here  to  abide 

here; 
Else  why  send  him  at  all  ?     Nature  wants  him  still,  it  is 

likely ; 
On  the  whole,  we  are  meant  to  look  after  ourselves ;  it  is 

certain 
Each  has  to  eat  for  himself,  digest  for  himself,  and  in 

general 
Care  for  his  own  dear  life,  and  see  to  his  own  preservation ; 
Nature's  intentions,  in  most  things  uncertain,  in  this  are 

decisive ; 
Which,  on  the  whole,  I  conjecture  the  Romans  will  follow, 

and  I  shall. 
So  we  cling  to  our  rocks  like  limpets ;  Ocean  may  bluster. 
Over  and  under  and  round  us ;  we  open  our  shells  to  im- 
bibe our 
Nourishment,  close  them  again,  and  are  safe,  fulfilling  the 

purpose 
Nature  intended,  —  a  wise  one,  of  course,  and  a  noble,  we 

doubt  not. 
Sweet  it  may  be  and  decorous,  perhaps,  for  the  country  to 

die;  but, 
On  the  whole,  we  conclude  the  Romans  won't  do  it,  and  I 

shan't. 

III.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Will  they  fight?     They  say  so.     And  will  the  French? 

I  can  hardly, 
Hardly  think  so ;   and  yet He  is  come,  they  say,  to 

Palo, 
He  is  passed  from  Monterone,  at  Santa  Severa 


248  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

He  hatli  laid  up  his  guns.  But  the  Virgin,  the  Daughter 
of  Roma, 

She  hath  despised  thee  and  laughed  thee  to  scorn, — The 
Daughter  of  Tiber, 

She  hath  shaken  her  head  and  built  barricades  against 
thee! 

Will  they  fight  ?    I  believe  it.    Alas !  'tis  ephemeral  folly, 

Vain  and  ephemeral  folly,  of  course,  compared  with  pic- 
tures, 

Statues,  and  antique  gems !  —  Indeed :  and  yet  indeed  too. 

Yet,  methought,  in  broad  day  did  I  dream,  —  tell  it  not  in 
St.  James's, 

Whisper  it  not  in  thy  courts,  0  Christ  Church !  —  yet  did 
I,  waking, 

Dream  of  a  cadence  that  sings,  Si  tombent  nos  jeimes  Mros, 
la 

Terre  en  pi'oduit  de  nouveaux  contre  vous  tous  pr^ts  d,  se 
battre  ; 

Dreamt  of  great  indignations  and  angers  transcendental, 

Dreamt  of  a  sword  at  my  side  and  a  battle-horse  under- 
neath me. 

IV.    CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Now  supposing  the  French  or  the  Neapolitan  soldier 

Should  by  some  evil  chance  come  exploring  the  Maison 
Serny 

(Where  the  family  English  are  all  to  assemble  for  safety), 

Am  I  prepared  to  lay  down  my  life  for  the  British  female  ? 

Really,  who  knows  ?  One  has  bowed  and  talked,  till,  little 
by  little. 

All  the  natural  heat  has  escaped  of  the  chivah-ous  spirit. 

Oh,  one  conformed,  of  course ;  but  one  doesn't  die  for  good 
manners. 

Stab  or  shoot,  or  be  shot,  by  way  of  graceful  attention. 

No,  if  it  should  be  at  all,  it  should  be  on  the  barricades 
there ; 

Should  I  incarnadine  ever  this  inky  pacifical  finger, 

Sooner  far  should  it  be  for  this  vapour  of  Italy's  freedom, 

Sooner  far  by  the  side  of  the  d d  aiul  dirty  plebeians. 

Ah,  for  a  child  in  the  street  1  could  strike ;  for  the  full- 
blown Ifidy  — 

Somehow,  Eustace,  alas !  I  have  not  felt  the  vocation. 


AMOURS   DE    VOYAGE  249 

Yet  these  people  of  course  will  expect,  as  of  course,  my 
protection, 

Vernon  in  radiant  arms  stand  forth  for  the  lovely  Geor- 
gina. 

And  to  appear,  I  suppose,  were  but  common  civility.  Yes, 
and 

Truly  I  do  not  desire  they  should  either  be  killed  or  of- 
fended. 

Oh,  and  of  course,  you  will  say,  '  When  the  time  comes, 
you  will  be  ready.' 

Ah,  but  before  it  comes,  am  I  to  presume  it  will  be  so? 

What  I  cannot  feel  now,  am  I  to  suppose  that  I  shall 
feel? 

Am  I  not  free  to  attend  for  the  ripe  and  indubious  in- 
stinct ? 

Am  I  forbidden  to  wait  for  the  clear  and  lawful  percep- 
tion ? 

Is  it  the  calling  of  man  to  surrender  his  knowledge  and 
insight, 

For  the  mere  venture  of  what  may,  perhaps,  be  the  virtu- 
ous action? 

Must  we,  walking  our  earth,  discern  a  little,  and  hoping 

Some  plain  visible  task  shall  yet  for  our  hands  be  assigned 
us, — 

Must  we  abandon  the  future  for  fear  of  omitting  the 
present, 

Quit  our  own  fireside  hopes  at  the  alien  call  of  a  neighbour, 

To  the  mere  possible  shadow  of  Deity  offer  the  victim  ? 

And  is  all  this,  my  friend,  but  a  weak  and  ignoble  refining, 

Wholly  unworthy  the  head  or  the  heart  of  Your  Own 
Correspondent  ? 

V.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Yes,  we  are  fighting  at  last,  it  appears.     This  morning  as 

usual, 
Murray,  as  usual,  in  hand,  I  enter  the  Caff^  Nuovo ; 
Seating  myself  with  a  sense  as  it  were  of  a  change  in  the 

weather, 
Not  understanding,   however,   but   thinking   mostly    of 

Murray, 
And,  for  to-day  is  their  day,  of  the  Campidoglio  Marbles; 
Caff^-latte  !  I  call  to  the  waiter,  —  and  Non  c'  ^  latte. 


250  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

This  is  the  answer  he  makes  me,  and  this  is  the  sign  of  a 

battle. 
So  I  sit :  and  truly  they  seem  to  think  any  one  else  more 
Worthy  than  me  of  attention.     I  wait  for  my  milkless 

nero 
Free  to  observe  undistracted  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  persons, 
Blending  civilian  and  soldier  in  strangest  costume,  com- 
ing in,  and 
Gulping  in  hottest  haste,  still  standing,  their  coffee  — 

withdrawing 
Eagerly,  jangling   a   sword  on  the  steps,  or  jogging  a 

musket 
Slung  to  the  shoulder  behind.     They  are  fewer,  more- 
over, than  usual, 
Much  and  silenter  far ;  and  so  I  begin  to  imagine 
Something  is  really  afloat.     Ere  I   leave,  the  Gaffe  is 

empty, 
Empty  too  the  streets,  in  all  its  length  the  Corse 
Empty,  and  empty  I  see  to  my  right  and  left  the  Gondotti. 
Twelve   o'clock,   on    the   Pincian   Hill,   with   lots   of 

English, 
Germans,  Americans,  French,  —  the  Frenchmen,  too,  are 

protected, — 
So  we  stand  in  the  sun,  but  afraid  of  a  probable  shower ; 
So  we  stand  and  stare,  and  see,  to  the  left  of  St.  Peter's, 
Smoke,  from  the  cannon,  white,  —  but  that  is  at  intervals 

only,  — 
Black,    from    a    burning  house,   we    suppose,    by  the 

Gavalleggieri ; 
And  we  believe  we  discern  some  lines  of  men  descending 
Down  through  the  vineyard-slopes,  and  catch  a  bayonet 

gleaming. 
Every   ten    minutes,    however,  —  in    this    there    is   no 

misconception,  — 
Comes  a  great  white  puff  from  behind  Michel  Angelo's 

dome,  and 
After  a  space  the  report  of  a  real  big  gun,  —  not  the 

Frenchman's !  — 
That  must  be  doing  some  work.     And  so  we  watch  and 

conjecture. 
Shortly,  an  Englishman  comes,  who  says  he  has  been 

to  St.  Peter's, 
Seen  the  Piazza  and  troops,  but  that  is  all  he  can  tell  us ; 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  251 

So  we   watch    and    sit,   and,    indeed,    it    begins   to   be 

tiresome.  — 
All   this   smoke   is   outside;    when  it  has  come  to  the 

inside, 
It  will  be  time,  perhaps,  to  descend  and  retreat  to  our 

houses. 
Half-past   one,    or   two.     The   report   of    small    arms 

frequent. 
Sharp  and  savage  indeed ;  that  cannot  all  be  for  nothing : 
So  we  watch  and  wonder ;  but  guessing  is  tiresome,  very. 
Weary  of  wondering,  watching,  and  guessing,  and  gossip- 
ing idly, 
Down  I  go,  and  pass  through  the  quiet  streets  with  the 

knots  of 
National  Guards  patrolling,  and  flags  hanging  out  at  the 

windows, 
English,    American,    Danish,  —  and,   after    offering    to 

help  an 
Irish  family  moving  en  masse  to  the  Maison  Serny, 
After  endeavouring  idly  to  minister  balm  to  the  trembling 
Quinquagenarian  fears  of  two  lone  British  spinsters, 
Go  to  make  sure  of  my  dinner  before  the  enemy  enter. 
But  by  this  there  are  signs  of  stragglers  returning ;  and 

voices 
Talk,  though  you  don't  believe  it,  of  guns  and  prisoners 

taken ; 
And  on  the  walls  you   read   the   first  bulletin   of   the 

morning.  — 
This  is  all  that  I  saw,  and  all  I  know  of  the  battle. 

VI.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE, 

Victory  !    Victory  !  —  Yes  !    ah,  yes,   thou  republican 

Zion, 
Truly  the  kings  of  the  earth  are  gathered  and  gone  by 

together ; 
Doubtless  they  marvelled  to  witness  such  things,  were 

astonished,  and  so  forth. 
Victory  !  Victory !  Victory !  —  Ah,  but  it  is,  believe  me, 
Easier,  easier  far,  to  intone  the  chant  of  the  martyr 
Than  to  indite  any  paean  of  any  victory.     Death  may 
Sometimes  be  noble ;  but  life,  at  the  best,  will  appear  an 

illusion. 


252  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

While  the  great  pain  is  upon  us,  it  is  great ;  when  it  is 

over, 
Why,  it  is  over.     The  smoke  of  the   sacrifice   rises   to 

heaven. 
Of  a  sweet  savour,  no  doubt,  to  Somebody;  but  on  the 

altar, 
Lo,  there  is  nothing  remaining  but  ashes  and  dirt  and  ill 

odour. 
So  it  stands,  you  perceive;   the   labial   muscles   that 

swelled  with 
Vehement  evolution  of  yesterday  Marseillaises, 
Articulations  sublime  of  defiance  and  scorning,  to-day  col- 
Lapse  and  languidly  mumble,  while  men  and  women  and 

papers 
Scream  and  re-scream  to  each  other  the  chorus  of  Victory. 

Well,  but 
I  am  thankful  they  fought,  and  glad  that  the  Frenchmen 

were  beaten. 

VII.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

So,  I  have   seen   a  man  killed!    An  experience  that, 

among  others ! 
Yes,  I  suppose  I  have ;  although  I  can  hardly  be  certain, 
And  in  a  court  of  justice  could  never  declare  I  had  seen  it.. 
But  a  man  was  killed,  I  am  told,  in  a  place  where  I  saw 
Something;  a  man  was   killed,  I  am   told,  and   I   saw 

something. 
I  was  returning  home  from   St.  Peter's;  Murray,  as 

usual. 
Under  my  arm,  I  remember ;  had  crossed  the  St.  Angelo 

bridge;  and 
Moving  towards  the  Condotti,  had  got  to  the  first  barricade, 

when 
Gradually,  thinking  still  of  St.  Peter's,  I  became  conscious 
Of  a  sensation  of  movement  opposing  me,  —  tendency  this 

way 
(Such  as  one  fancies  may  be  in  a  stream  when  the  wave 

of  the  tide  is 
Coming  and  not  yet  come, — a  sort  of  noise  and  retention) ; 
So  I  turned,  and,  before  I  turned,  caught  sight  of  stragglers 
Heading  a  crowd,  it  is  plain,  that  is  coming  behind  that 

corner. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  253 

Looking  up,  I  see  windows  filled  with  heads ;  the  Piazza, 
Into  which  you  remember  the  Ponte  St.  Angelo  enters. 
Since  I  passed,  has  thickened  with  curious  groups  ;  and 

now  the 
Crowd   is   coming,   has   turned,   has    crossed    that   last 

barricade,  is 
Here  at  my  side.     In  the  middle  they  drag  at  something. 

What  is  it  ? 
Ha  !  bare  swords  in  the  air,  held  up  ?     There  seem  to  be 

voices 
Pleading  and  hands  putting  back ;  of&cial,  perhaps ;  but 

the  swords  are 
Many,  and  bare  in  the  air.     In  the  air?  they  descend; 

they  are  smiting. 
Hewing,  chopping  —  At  what?     In   the   air  once  more 

upstretched  ?     And  — 
Is  it  blood  that's  on  them  ?     Yes,  certainly  blood !     Of 

whom,  then  ? 
Over  whom  is  the  cry  of  this  furor  of  exultation  ? 

While  they  are  skipping  and  screaming,  and  dancing 

their  caps  on  the  points  of 
Swords  and  bayonets,  I  to  the  outskirts  back,  and  ask  a 
Mercantile-seeming   bystander,  '  What   is   it  ? '   and  he, 

looking  always 
That  way,  makes  me  answer,  '  A  Priest,  who  was  trying 

to  fly  to 
The  Neapolitan  army,' — and  thus  explains  the  proceeding. 
You  didn't  see  the  dead  man  ?     No ;  —  I  began  to  be 

doubtful ; 
I  was  in  black  myself,  and  didn't  know  what  mightn't 

happen,  — 
But  a  National  Guard  close  by  me,  outside  of  the  hubbub. 
Broke  his  sword  with  slashing  a  broad  hat  covered  with 

dust,  —  and 
Passing  away  from  the  place  with  Murray  under  my  arm, 

and 
Stooping,  I  saw  through  the  legs  of  the  people  the  legs 

of  a  body. 
You  are  the  first,  do  you  know,  to  whom  I  have  men- 
tioned the  matter. 
Whom  should  I   tell   it   to   else  ?  —  these   girls  ?  —  the 

Heavens  forbid  it !  — 
Quidnuncs  at  Monaldiui's  ?  —  Idlers  upon  the  Pincian  ? 


254  CLOUGirs  POEMS. 

If  I  rightly  remember,  it  happened  on  that  afternoon 

when 
Word  of  the  nearer  approach  of  a  new  Neapolitan  army 
First   was   spread.      I   began   to   bethink   me   of  Paris 

Septembers, 
Thought  I  could  fancy  the  look  of  that  old  'Ninety-two. 

On  that  evening 
Three  or  four,  or,  it  may  be,  five,  of  these  people  were 

slaughtered. 
Some  declared  they  had,  one  of  them,  fired  on  a  sentinel; 

others 
Say  they  were  only  escaping;   a  Priest,  it  is  currently 

stated, 
Stabbed  a  National  Guard  on  the  very  Piazza  Colonna : 
History,  Rumour  of  Rumours,  I  leave  to  thee  to  deter- 
mine! 
But  I  am  thankful  to  say  the  government  seems  to  have 

strength  to 
Put  it  down ;  it  has  vanished,  at  least ;  the  place  is  most 

peaceful. 
Through  the  Trastevere  walking  last  night,  at  nine  of  the 

clock,  I 
Pound  no  sort  of  disorder ;  I  crossed  by  the  Island-bridges, 
So  by  the  narrow  streets  to  the  Ponte  Rotto,  and  onwards 
Thence  by   the  Temple   of  Vesta,   away  to  the   great 

Coliseum, 
Which  at  the  full  of  the  moon  is  an  object  worthy  a  visit. 


VIII.     GEORGINA   TREVELLYN   TO   LOUISA- 


Only  think,  dearest  Louisa,  what  fearful  scenes  we  have 

witnessed !  — 

******* 
George  has  just  seen  Garibaldi,  dressed  up  in  a  long  white 

cloak,  on 
Horseback,  riding  by,  with  his  mounted  negro  behind 

him : 
This  is  a  man,  you  know,  who  came  from  America  with 

him. 
Out  of  the  woods,  I  suppose,  and  uses  a  lasso  in  fighting, 
Which   is,  I   don't   quite  know,  but  a  sort  of  noose,  I 

imagine ; 
This  he  throws  on  the  heads  of  the  enemy's  men  in  a  battle, 


AMOURS  DE   VOYAGE.  255 

Pulls  them  into  his  reach,  and  then  most  cruelly  kills 
them  : 

Mary  does  not  believe,  but  we  heard  it  from  an  Italian. 

Mary  allows  she  was  wrong  about  Mr.  Claude  behig  selfish; 

He  was  most  useful  and  kind  on  the  terrible  thirtieth  of 
April. 

Do  not  write  here  any  more ;  we  are  starting  directly  for 
Florence : 

We  should  be  off  to-morrow,  if  only  Papa  could  get  horses ; 

All  have  been  seized  everywhere  for  the  use  of  this  dread- 
ful Mazzini. 

P.S. 

Mary  has   seen   thus  far.  —  I    am  really   so  angry, 
Louisa,  — 

Quite  out  of  patience,  my  dearest !  What  can  the  man 
be  intending  ? 

I  am  quite  tired ;  and  Mary,  who  might  bring  him  to  in 
a  moment, 

Lets  him  go  on  as  he  likes,  and  neither  will  help  nor  dis- 
miss him. 

IX.     CliAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

It  is  most  curious  to  see  what  a  power  a  few  calm  words 

(in 
Merely  a  brief  proclamation)  appear  to  possess  on  the 

people. 
Order  is  perfect,  and  peace ;  the  city  is  utterly  tranquil  j 
And  one  cannot  conceive  that  this  easy  and  nonchalauL 

crowd,  that 
Flows   like  a  quiet   stream  through  street  and  market- 
place, entering 
Shady  recesses  and  bays  of  church,  osteria  and  caff^, 
Could  in  a  moment  be  changed  to  a  flood  as  of  molten  lava. 
Boil  into  deadly  wrath  and  wild  homicidal  delusion. 

Ah,  'tis  an  excellent  race,  —  and  even  in  old  degradation. 
Under  a  rule  that  enforces  to  flattery,  lying,  and  cheating. 
E'en  under  Pope  and  Priest,  a  nice  and  natural  people. 
Oh,  could  they  but  be  allowed  this  chance  of  redemption ! 

—  but  clearly 
That  is  not  likely  to  be.     Meantime,  notwithstanding  all 
journals. 


256  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Honour  for  once  to  the  tongue  and  the  pen  of  the  elo- 
quent writer ! 

Honour  to  speech!  and  all  honour  to  thee,  thou  noble 
Mazzini ! 

X.    CLAUDE    TO   EUSTACE. 

I  AM  in  love,  meantime,  you  think ;  no  doubt  you  would 

think  so. 
I  am  in  love,  you  say ;  with  those  letters,  of  course,  you 

would  say  so. 
I  am  in  love,  you  declare.     I  think  not  so ;  yet  I  grant 

It  is  a  pleasure  indeed  to  converse  with  this  girl.     Oh, 

rare  gift. 
Rare  felicity,  this !  she  can  talk  in  a  rational  way,  can 
Speak  upon  subjects  that  really  are  matters  of  mind  and 

of  thinking, 
Yet   in   perfection   retain    her    simplicity ;    never,   one 

moment. 
Never,  however  you  urge   it,  however   you   tempt  her, 

consents  to 
Step  from  ideas  and  fancies  and  loving  sensations  to  those 

vain 
Conscious  understandings  that  vex  the  minds  of  mankind. 
No,  though  she  talk,  it  is  music ;  her  lingers  desert  not 

the  keys ;  'tis 
Song,  though  you  hear  in  the  song  the  articulate  vocables 

sounded, 
Syllabled  singly  and  sweetly  the  words  of  melodious 

meaning. 
I  am  in  love,  you  say :  I  do  not  think  so,  exactly. 

XI.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

There  are   two  different  kinds,   I  believe,   of  human 

attraction : 
One  which  simply  disturbs,  unsettles,  and  makes  you 

uneasy. 
And  another  that  poises,  retains,  and  fixes  and  holds 

you. 
I  have  no  doubt,  for  myself,  in  giving  my  voice  for  the 

latter. 


AMOURS  DE   VOYAGE.  267 

I  do  not  wish  to  be  moved,  but   growing  where  I  was 

growing, 
There  more  truly  to  grow,  to  live  where  as  yet  I  had 

languished. 
I  do  not  like  being  moved :  for  the  will  is  excited ;  and 

action 
Is  a  most   dangerous   thing ;    I    tremble  for   something 

factitious. 
Some  malpractice  of  heart  and  illegitimate  process ; 
We  are  so  prone  to  these  things,  with  our  terrible  notions 

of  duty. 

XII.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Ah,  let  me  look,  let  me  watch,  let  me  wait,  unhurried, 

unprompted ! 
Bid  me  not  venture  on  aught  that  could  alter  or  end  what 

is  present ! 
Say  not,  Time  flies,  and  Occasion,  that  never  returns,  is 

departing ! 
Drive  me  not  out,  ye  ill  angels  with  fiery  swords,  from  my 

Eden, 
Waiting,  and  watching,  and  looking !     Let  love  be  its  own 

inspiration ! 
Shall  not  a  voice,  if  a  voice  there  must  be,  from  the  airs 

that  environ. 
Yea,  from  the  conscious  heavens,  without  our  knowledge 

or  effort. 
Break   into   audible   words  ?      And    love    be    its    own 

inspiration  ? 

XTII.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Wherefore  and  how  I  am  certain,  I  hardly  can  tell ;  but 
it  is  so. 

She  doesn't  like  me,  Eustace ;  I  think  she  never  will  like 
me. 

Is  it  my  fault,  as  it  is  my  misfortune,  my  ways  are  not 
her  ways  ? 

Is  it  my  fault,  that  my  habits  and  modes  are  dissimilar 
wholly  ? 

'Tis  not  her  fault ;  'tis  her  nature,  her  virtue,  to  misap- 
prehend them : 


258  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

'Tis  not  her  fault ;  'tis  lier  beautiful  nature,  not  ever  to 

know  me. 
Hopeless    it    seems,  —  yet  I  cannot,  though  hopeless, 

determine  to  leave  it : 
She  goes  —  therefore  I  go ;  she  moves,  —  I  move,  not  to 

lose  her. 

XIV.     CLAUDE    TO    EUSTACE. 

Oh,  'tisn't  manly,  of  course,  'tisn't  manly,  this  method  of 

wooing ; 
'Tisn't  the  way  very  likely  to  win.     For  the  woman,  they 

tell  you, 
Ever  prefers   the   audacious,  the  wilful,  the   vehement 

hero ; 
She  has  no  heart  for  the  timid,  the  sensitive  soul ;  and 

for  knowledge,  — 
Knowledge,   0  ye   Gods  !  —  when  did  they  appreciate 

knowledge  ? 
Wherefore  should  they,  either?     I  am   sure   I   do   not 

desire  it. 
Ah,  and  I  feel  too,  Eustace,  she  cares  not  a  tittle  about 

me ! 
(Care  about  me,  indeed !  and  do  I  really  expect  it  ?) 
But  my  manner  offends ;  my  ways  are  wholly  repugnant ; 
Every  word  that  I  utter  estranges,  hurts,  and  repels  her ; 
Every  moment   of  bliss   that  I   gain,  in   her   exquisite 

presence. 
Slowly,  surely,  withdraws  her,  removes  her,  and  severs 

her  from  me. 
Not  that  I  care  very  much !  —  any  way  I  escape  from  the 

boy's  own 
Folly,  to  which  I  am  prone,  of  loving  where  it  is  easy. 
Not  that  I  mind  very  much !     Why  should  I  ?     I  am  not 

in  love,  and 
Am  prepared,  I  think,  if  not  by  previous  habit, 
Yet  in  the  spirit  beforehand  for  this  and  all  that  is  like 

It  is  an  easier  matter  for  us  contemplative  creatures. 
Us  upon  wliom  the  pressure  of  action  is  laid  so  lightly; 
We,  discontented  indeed  with  things  in  particular,  idle, 
Sickly,  complaining,  by  faith,  in  the  vision  of  things  in 
general, 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  259 

Manage  to  hold  on  our  way  without,  like  others  around 
us, 

Seizing  the  nearest  arm  to  comfort,  help,  and  support  us. 

Yet,  after  all,  my  Eustace,  I  know  but  little  about  it. 

All  I  can  say  for  myself,  for  present  alike  and  for  past, 
is, 

Mary  Trevellyn,  Eustace,  is  certainly  worth  your  ac- 
quaintance. 

You  couldn't  come,  I  suppose,  as  far  as  Florence  to  see 
her? 


XV.  GEORGINA  TREVELLYN  TO  LOUISA 


To-morrow  we're  starting  for  Florence, 

Truly  rejoiced,  you  may  guess,  to  escape  from  republican 

terrors ; 
Mr.  C.  and  Papa  to  escort  us ;  we  by  vettura 
Through  Siena,  and  Georgy  to  follow  and  join  us  by  Leg- 
horn. 

Then Ah,  what  shall  I  say,  my  dearest  ?     I  tremble 

in  thinking ! 
You  will  imagine  my  feelings,  —  the  blending  of  hope 

and  of  sorrow. 
How  can  I  bear  to  abandon  Papa  and  Mamma  and  my 

Sisters  ? 
Dearest  Louise,  indeed  it  is  very  alarming ;  but,  trust  me 
Ever,   whatever    may    change,   to   remain   your  loving 
Georgina. 

P.S.     BY   MAKY   TREVELLYN. 

'  Do  I  like  Mr.  Claude  any  better  ? ' 

I  am  to  tell  you,  —  and,  'Pray,  is  it  Susan  or  I  that 
attract  him  ? ' 

This  he  never  has  told,  but  Georgina  could  certainly  ask 
him. 

All  I  can  say  for  myself  is,  alas !  that  he  rather  repels 
me. 

There !  I  think  him  agreeable,  but  also  a  little  repulsive. 

So  be  content,  dear  Louisa ;  for  one  satisfactory  marriage 

Surely  will  do  in  one  year  for  the  family  you  would  es- 
tablish ; 

Neither  Susan  nor  I  shall  afford  you  the  joy  of  a  second. 


260  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

^  P.S.     BY    GEORGINA    TREVELLYN. 

Mb.  Claude,  you  must  know,  is  behaving  a  little  bit 
better ; 

He  and  Papa  are  great  friends;  but  he  really  is  too  shilly- 
shally, — 

So  unlike  George !  Yet  I  hope  that  the  matter  is  going 
on  fairly. 

I  shall,  however,  get  George,  before  he  goes,  to  say  some- 
thing. 

Dearest  Louise,  how  delightful  to  bring  young  people  to- 
gether ! 


Is  it  to  Florence  we  follow,  or  are  we  to  tarry  yet  longer, 

E'en  amid  clamour  of  arms,  here  in  the  city  of  old, 
Seeking  from  clamour  of  arms  in  the  Past  and  the  Arts  to 
be  hidden, 
Vainly  'mid  Arts  and  the  Past  seeJcing  one  life  to  for- 
get? 
Ah,  fair  shadow,  scarce  seen,  go  forth!  for  anon  he  shall 
follow,  — 
He  that  beheld  thee,  anon,  whither  thou  leadest  must  go  ! 
Oo,  and  the  wise,  loving  Muse,  she  also  will  follow  and  find 
thee ! 
She,  should  she  linger  in  Borne,  were  not  dissevered  from 
thee  I 

Canto  III. 

Yet  to  the  wondrous  St.  Peter's  and  yet  to  the  solemn  Ro- 
tonda, 
Mingling  with  heroes  and  gods,  yet  to  the  Vatican  Walls, 
Yet  may  we  go,  and  recline,  while  a  whole  mighty  world 
seems  above  us. 
Gathered  and  fixed  to  all  time  into  one  roofing  stipreme; 
Yet  may  we,  thinking  on  these  things,  exclude  what  is  meaner 
around  us  ; 
Yet,  at  the  worst  of  the  tcorst,  books  and  a  cliamber  re- 
main; 
Yet  may  we  think,  and  forget,  and  possess  oar  souls  in  re- 
sistance. — 
AJi,  but  away  from  the  stir,  shoviing,  and  gossip  of  war, 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  261 

Where,  upon  Apennine  slope,  with  the  chestnut  the  oak  trees 

immingle, 

Where,  amid  odorous  copse  bridle-paths  wander  and  wind, 

Where,    under    mulberry    branches,    the    diligent    rivulet 

sparkles, 

Or  amid  cotton  and  maize  peasants  their  water<vorks 

ply, 

Where,  over  Jig  tree  and  orange  in  tier  upon  tier  still  re- 
peated. 
Garden  on  garden  upreared,  balconies  step  to  the  sky,  — 
All,  that  I  were  far  away  from  the  crowd  and  the  streets  of 
the  city. 
Under  the  vine-trellis  laid,  0  my  beloved,  with  thee  ! 

I.     MABY    TBEVELLYN     TO     MISS     KOPEB, On    the    Way   tO 

Florence. 

Why  doesn't  Mr.  Claude  come  with  us  ?  you  ask.  —  We 
don't  know, 

You  should  know  better  than  we.    He  talked  of  the  Vati- 
can marbles ; 

But  I  can't  wholly  believe  that  this  was  the  actual  rea- 
son,— 

He  was  so  ready  before,  when  we  asked  him  to  come  and 
escort  us. 

Certainly  he  is  odd,  my  dear  Miss  Roper.     To  change  so 

Suddenly,   just  for  a  whim,  was  not  quite  fair  to  the 
party,  — 

Not  quite  right.     I  declare,  I  really  almost  am  offended : 

I,  his  great  friend,  as  you  say,  have  doubtless  a  title  to 
be  so. 

Not  that  I  greatly  regret  it,  for  dear  Georgina  distinctly 

Wishes  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  show  her  adroitness. 
But,  oh,  my 

Pen  will  not  write  any  more ;  —  let  us  say  nothing  further 
about  it. 
******* 

Yes,  my  dear  Miss  Roper,  I  certainly  called  him  repulsive ; 

So  I  think  him,  but  cannot  be  sure  I  have  used  the  ex- 
pression 

Quite  as  your  pupil  should ;  yet  he  does  most  truly  repel 
me. 


262  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Was  it  to  you  I  made  use  of  the  word  ?  or  who  was  it 
told  you  ? 

Yes,  repulsive ;  observe,  it  is  but  when  he  talks  of  ideas 

That  he  is  quite  unaffected,  and  free,  and  expansive,  and 
easy ; 

I  could  pronounce  him  simply  a  cold  intellectual  being.  — 

When  does  he  make  advances?  —  He  thinks  that  women 
should  woo  him ; 

Yet,  if  a  girl  should  do  so,  would  be  but  alarmed  and  dis- 
gusted. 

She  that  should  love  him  must  look  for  small  love  in  re- 
turn, —  like  the  ivy 

On  the  stone  wall,  must  expect  but  a  rigid  and  niggard 
support,  and 

E'en  to  get  that  must  go  searching  all  round  with  her 
humble  embraces. 

II.   CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE,  — from  Rome. 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  do  you  think  that  the  grain  would 
sprout  in  the  furrow, 

Did  it  not  truly  accept  as  its  summum  and  ultimum  bonum 

That  mere  common  and  may-be  indifferent  soil  it  is  set  in  ? 

Would  it  have  force  to  develop  and  open  its  young  coty- 
ledons. 

Could  it  compare,  and  reflect,  and  examine  one  thing  with 
another  ? 

Would  it  endure  to  accomplish  the  round  of  its  natural 
functions 

Were  it  endowed  with  a  sense  of  the  general  scheme  of 
existence  ? 
While  from  Marseilles  in  the  steamer  we  voyage  to 
Civita  Vecchia, 

Vexed  in  the  squally  seas  as  we  lay  by  Capraja  and  Elba, 

Standing,  uplifted,  alone  on  the  heaving  poop  of  the  vessel. 

Looking  around  on  the  waste  of  the  rushing  incurious 
billows, 

'  This  is  Nature,'  I  said :  *  we  are  born  as  it  were  from 
her  waters ; 

Over  her  billows  that  buffet  and  beat  us,  her  offspring 
uncared  for. 

Casting  one  single  regard  of  a  painful  victorious  know- 
ledge, 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  263 

Into  her  billows  that  buffet  and  beat  us  we  sink  and  are 

swallowed.' 
This  was  the  sense  in  my  soul,  as  I  swayed  with  the  poop 

of  the  steamer ; 
And  as  unthinking  I  sat  in  the  hall  of  the  famed  Ariadne, 
Lo,  it  looked  at  me  there  from  the  face  of  a  Triton  in 

marble. 
It  is  the  simpler  thought,  and  I  can  believe  it  the  truer. 
Let  us  not  talk  of  growth;  we  are  still  in  our  Aqueous 

Ages. 

III.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Farewell,  Politics,  utterly !    What  can  I  do  ?    I  cannot 
Fight,  you  know ;  and  to  talk  I  am  wholly  ashamed.    And 

although  I 
Gnash  my  teeth  when  I  look  in  your  French  or  your  Eng- 
lish papers, 
What  is  the  ^ood  of  that?     Will  swearing,  I  wonder, 

mend  matters  ? 
Cursing  and  scolding  repel  the  assailants  ?    No,  it  is  idle ; 
No,  whatever  befalls,  I  will  hide,  will  ignore  or  forget  it. 
Let  the  tail  shift  for  itself;  I  will  bury  my  head.     And 

what's  the 
Eoman  Republic  to  me,  or  I  to  the  Roman  Republic  ? 
Why  not  fight  ?  —  In  the  first  place,  I  haven't  so  much 

as  a  musket ; 
In  the  next,  if  I  had,  I  shouldn't  know  how  I  should  use 

it; 
In  the  third,  just  at  present  I'm  studying  ancient  marbles ; 
In  the  fourth,  I  consider  I  owe  my  life  to  my  country ; 
In  the  fifth  —  I  forget,  but  four  good  reasons  are  ample. 
Meantime,  pray  let  'em  fight,  and  be  killed.     I  delight  in 

devotion. 
So  that  I  'list  not,  hurrah  for  the  glorious  army  of  martyrs ! 
Sanguis  martyrum  semen  Ecdesive;   though  it  would  seem 

this 
Church  is  indeed  of  the  purely  Invisible,  Kingdom-come 

kind: 
Militant  here  on  earth !    Triumphant,  of   course,  then, 

elsewhere ! 
Ah,  good  Heaven,  but  I  would ,  I  were  out  far  away  from 

the  pother ! 


264  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 


IV.     CLAUDE    TO    EUSTACE. 

Not,  as  we  read  in  the  words  of  the  olden-time  inspiration, 
Are  there  two  several  trees  in  the  place  we  are  set  to 

abide  in ; 
But  on  the  apex  most  high  of  the  Tree  of  Life  in  the 

Garden, 
Budding,  unfolding,  and  falling,  decaying  and  flowering 

ever, 
Flowering  is  set  and  decaying  the  transient  blossom  of 

Knowledge,  — 
Flowering  alone,  and  decaying,  the  needless  unfruitful 

blossom. 
Or  as  the  cypress-spires  by  the   fair-flowing   stream 

Hellespontine, 
Which  from  the  mythical  tomb  of  the  godlike  Protesilails 
Rose  sympathetic  in  grief  to  his  love-lorn  Laodamia, 
Evermore  growing,  and  when  in  their  growth  to  the  pros- 
pect attaining. 
Over  the  low  sea-banks,  of  the  fatal  Ilian  city, 
Withering  still  at  the  sight  which  still  they  upgrow  to 

encounter. 
Ah,  but  ye  that  extrude  from  the  ocean  your  helpless 

faces. 
Ye  over  stormy  seas  leading  long  and  dreary  processions, 
Ye,  too,  brood  of  the  wind,  whose  coming  is  whence  we 

discern  not. 
Making  your  nest  on  the  wave,  and  your  bed  on  the 

crested  billow, 
Skimming  rough  waters,  and  crowding  wet  sands  that 

the  tide  shall  return  to, 
Cormorants,  ducks,  and  gulls,  fill  ye  my  imagination ! 
Let  us  not  talk  of  growth ;  we  are  still  in  our  Aqueous 

Ages. 

V.   MARY  TREVELLYN  TO  MISS  ROPER,  — from  Florence. 

Dearest  Miss  Roper,  —  Alas !  we  are  all  at  Florence 

quite  safe,  and 
You,  we  hear,  are  shut  up !  indeed,  it  is  sadly  distressing ! 
We  were  most  lucky,  they  say,  to  get  off  when  we  did 

from  the  troubles. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.        '  265 

Now  you  are  really  besieged ;  they  tell  us  it  soon  will  be 
over ; 

Only  I  hope  and  trust  without  any  fight  in  the  city. 

Do  you  see  Mr.  Claude  ?  —  I  thought  he  might  do  some- 
thing for  you. 

I  am  quite  sure  on  occasion  he  really  would  wish  to  be 
useful. 

What  is  he  doing  ?  I  wonder ;  —  still  studying  Vatican 
marbles  ? 

Letters,  I  hope,  pass  through.  We  trust  your  brother  is 
better. 

VI.     CLAUDE   TO    EUSTACE. 

Juxtaposition,  in  fine ;  and  what  is  juxtaposition? 
Look  you,  we  travel   along   in  the  railway-carriage  or 

steamer, 
And,  pour  passer  le  temps,  till  the  tedious  journey  be 

ended, 
Lay  aside  paper  or  book,  to  talk  with  the  girl  that  is 

next  one ; 
And,  pour  passer  le  temps,  with  the  terminus  all  but  in 

prospect. 
Talk  of  eternal  ties  and  marriages  made  in  heaven. 
Ah,  did  we  really  accept  with  a  perfect  heart  the  illu- 
sion ! 
Ah,  did  we  really  believe  that  the  Present  indeed  is  the 

Only ! 
Or  through  all  transmutation,  all  shock  and  convulsion 

of  passion, 
¥eel  we  could  carry  undimmed,  unextinguished,  the  light 

of  our  knowledge ! 
But  for  his  funeral  train  which  the  bridegroom  sees 

in  the  distance, 
Would  he  so  joyfully,  think  you,  fall  in  with  the  mar- 
riage procession  ? 
But  for  that  final  discharge,  would  he  dare  to  enlist  in 

that  service  ? 
But  for  that  certain  release,  ever  sign  to  that  perilous 

contract  ? 
But  for  that  exit  secure,  ever  bend  to  that  treacherous 

doorway  ?  — 
Ah,  but  the  bride,  meantime,  —  do  you  think  she  sees  it 

as  he  does  ? 


266  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

But  for  the  steady  fore-sense  of  a  freer  and  larger  exist- 
ence, 
Think  you  that  man  could  consent  to  be  circumscribed 

here  into  action  ? 
But  for  assurance  within  of  a  limitless  ocean  divine,  o'er 
Whose  great  tranquil  depths  unconscious  the  wind-tost 

surface 
Breaks  into  ripples  of  trouble  that  come  and  change  and 

endure  not,  — 
But  that  in  this,  of  a  truth,  we  have  our  being,  and  know 

it. 
Think  you  we  men  could  submit  to  live  and  move  as  we 

do  here  ? 
Ah,  but  the  women,  —  God  bless  them !  they  don't  think 

at  all  about  it. 
Yet  we  must  eat  and  drink,  as  you  say.   And  as  limited 

beings 
Scarcely  can  hope  to  attain  upon  earth  to  an  Actual  Ab- 
stract, 
Leaving  to  God  contemplation,  to  His  hands  knowledge 

confiding, 
Sure  that  in  us  if  it  perish,  in  Him  it  abideth  and  dies 

not. 
Let  us  in  His   sight  accomplish   our   petty  particular 

doings,  — 
Yes,  and  contented  sit  down  to  the  victual  that  He  has 

provided. 
Allah  is  great,  no  doubt,  and  Juxtaposition  his  prophet. 
Ah,  but  the  women,  alas !  they  don't  look  at  it  in  that 

way. 
Juxtaposition  is  great ;  —  but,  my  friend,  I  fear  me,  the 

maiden 
Hardly  would  thank  or  acknowledge  the  lover  that  sought 

to  obtain  her, 
Not  as  the  thing  he  would  wish,  but  the  thing  he  must 

even  put  up  with,  — 
Hardly  would  tender  her  hand  to  the  Avooer  that  candidly 

told  her 
That  she  is  but  for  a  space,  an  ad-interim  solace  and 

pleasure, — 
That  in  the  end  she  shall  yield  to  a  perfect  and  absolute 

something, 
Which  1  then  for  myself  shall  behold,  and  not  another,  — 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  267 

Which  amid  fondest  endearments,  meantime  I  forget  not, 

forsake  not. 
Ah,  ye  feminine  souls,  so  loving,  and  so  exacting. 
Since  we  cannot  escape,  must  we  even  submit  to  deceive 

you  ? 
Since,  so  cruel  is  truth,  sincerity  shocks  and  revolts  you, 
Will  you  have  us  your  slaves  to  lie  to  you,  flatter  and  — 

leave  you  ? 

VII.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Juxtaposition    is  great,  —  but,   you  tell   me,   affinity 

greater. 
Ah,  my  friend,  there  are  many  affinities,  greater   and 

lesser, 
Stronger  and  weaker ;  and  each,  by  the  favour  of  juxtapo- 
sition, 
Potent,  efficient,  in  force,  —  for  a  time ;  but  none,  let  me 

tell  you. 
Save  by  the  law  of  the  land  and  the  ruinous  force  of  the 

will,  ah. 
None,  I  fear  me,  at  last  quite  sure  to  be  final  and  per- 
fect. 
Lo,  as  I  pace  in  the  street,  from  the  peasant-girl  to  the 

princess, 
Homo  sum,  nihil  humani  a  me  alienum  puto,  — 
Vir  sum,  nihil  foiminei,  —  and  e'en  to  the  uftermost  circle, 
All  that  is  Nature's  is  I,  and  I  all  things  that  are  Nar 

ture's. 
Yes,  as  I  walk,  I  behold,  in  a  luminous,  large  intuition. 
That  I  can  be  and  become  anything  that  I  meet  with  or 

look  at : 
I  am  the  ox  in  the  dray,  the  ass  with  the  garden-stuff 

panniers ; 
I  am  the  dog  in  the  doorway,  the  kitten  that  plays  in  the 

window. 
On  sunny  slab  of  the  ruin  the  furtive  and  fugitive  lizard. 
Swallow  above  me  that  twitters,  and  fly  that  is  buzzing 

about  me ; 
Yea,   and   detect,   as   I   go,   by  a  faint  but  a   faithful 

assurance. 
E'en  from  the  stones  of  the  street,  as  from  rocks  or  trees 

of  the  forest 


268  CLOUGII'S  POEMS. 

Something  of  kindred,  a  common,  though  latent  vitality, 

greets  me; 
And  to  escape  from  our  strivings,  mistakings,  misgrowths, 

and  perversions, 
Fain  could  demand  to  return  to  that  perfect  and  primitive 

silence. 
Fain  be  enfolded  and  fixed,  as   of  old,  in  their  rigid 

embraces. 

VIII.     CLAUDE  TO   EUSTACE. 

And  as  I  walk  on  my  way,  I  behold  them  consorting  and 

coupling ; 
Faithful  it  seemeth,  and  fond,  very  fond,  very  probably 

faithful, 
All  as  I  go  on  my  way,  with  a  pleasure   sincere  and 

unmingled. 
Life  is  beautiful,  Eustace,  entrancing,  enchanting  to 

look  at; 
As  are  the  streets  of  a  city  we  pace  while  the  carriage  is 

changing, 
As  a  chamber  filled-in  with  harmonious,  exquisite  pictures. 
Even  so  beautiful  Earth ;  and  could  we  eliminate  only 
This  vile  hungering  impulse,  this   demon  within  us  of 

craving, 
Life  were  beatitude,  living  a  perfect  divine  satisfaction. 

IX.     CLAUDE    TO    EUSTACE. 

Mild  monastic  faces  in  quiet  collegiate  cloisters  : 
So  let  me  offer  a  single  and  celibatarian  phrase,  a 
Tribute  to  those  whom  perhaps  you  do  not  believe  I  can 

honour. 
But,  from  the  tumult  escaping,  'tis  pleasant,  of  drumming 

and  shouting, 
Hither,  oblivious  awhile,  to  withdraw,  of  the  fact  or  the 

falsehood. 
And  amid  placid  regards  and  mildly  courteous  greetings 
Yield  to  the  calm  and  composure  and  gentle  abstraction 

that  reign  o'er 
Mild  monaHtic  faces  in  quiet  collegiate  cloisters : 

Terrible  word,  Obligation !     You  should  not,  Eustace, 

you  should  not, 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  269 

No,  yon  should  not  have  used  it.     But,  oh,  great  Heavens, 

I  repel  it ! 
Oh,  I  cancel,  reject,  disavow,  and  repudiate  wholly 
Every   debt   in   this    kind,   disclaim   every   claim,   and 

dishonour, 
Yea,  my  own  heart's  own  writing,  my  soul's  own  signa- 
ture !     Ah,  no ! 
I  will  be  free  in  this;  you  shall  not,  none  shall,  bind  me. 
No,  my  friend  if  you  wish  to  be  told,  it  was  this  above 

all  things. 
This  that  charmed  me,  ah,  yes,  even  this,  that  she  held 

me  to  nothing. 
No,  I  could  talk  as  I  pleased ;  come  close ;  fasten  ties,  as 

I  fancied ; 
Bind  and  engage  myself  deep ;  —  and  lo,  on  the  following 

morning 
It  was  all  e'en  as  before,  like  losings  in  games  played  for 

nothing. 
Yes,  when  I  came,  with  mean  fears  in  my  soul,  with  a 

semi-performance 
At  the  first  step  breaking  down  in  its   pitiful   role   of 

evasion, 
When    to    shuffle    I    came,  to  compromise,  not  meet, 

engagements, 
Lo,  with  her  calm  eyes  there  she  met  me  and  knew  noth- 
ing of  it,  — 
Stood    unexpecting,  unconscious.      She    spoke    not    of 

obligations, 
Knew  not  of  debt  —  ah,  no,  I  believe  you,  for  excellent 

reasons. 

X.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Hang  this  thinking,  at  last !  what  good  is  it  ?  oh,  and 

what  evil ! 
Oh,  what  mischief  and  pain !  like  a  clock  in  a  sick  man's 

chamber, 
Ticking  and  ticking,  and  still  through  each  covert  of 

slumber  pursuing. 
What  shall  I  do  to  thee,  0  thou  Preserver  of  men? 

Have  compassion ; 
Be  favourable,   and  hear!     Take  from   me  this  regal 

knowledge ; 


270  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Let  me,  contented  and  mute,  with  the  beasts  of  the  fields, 
my  brothers, 

Tranquilly,  happily  lie,  —  and  eat  grass,  like  Nebuchad- 
nezzar ! 

XI.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

TiBUB  is  beautiful,  too,  and  the  orchard  slopes,  and  the 

Anio 
Falling,  falling  yet,  to  the  ancient  lyrical  cadence ; 
Tibur  and  Anio's  tide ;  and  cool  from  Lucretilis  ever. 
With   the   Digentian   stream,  and   with  the  Bandusian 

fountain. 
Folded  in  Sabine  recesses,  the  valley  and  villa  of  Hor- 
ace:— 
So  not  seeing  I  sang ;  so  seeing  and  listening  say  I, 
Here  as  I  sit  by  the  stream,  as  I  gaze  at  the  cell  of  the 

Sibyl, 
Here  with  Albunea's  home  and  the  grove  of  Tiburnus  be- 
side me ;  ^ 
Tivoli  beautiful  is,  and  musical,  0  Teverone, 
Dashing  from  mountain  to  plain,  thy  parted  impetuous 

waters, 
Tivoli's  waters  and  rocks ;  and  fair  unto  Monte  Gennaro 
(Haunt,  even  yet,  I  must  think,  as  I  wander  and  gaze,  of 

the  shadows. 
Faded  and  pale,  yet  immortal,  of  Faunus,  the  Nymphs, 

and  the  Graces), 
Fair  in  itself,  and  yet  fairer  with  human  completing  cre- 
ations, 
Folded  in  Sabine  recesses  the  valley  and  villa  of  Hor- 
ace :  — 
So  not  seeing  I  sang ;  so  now  —  Nor  seeing,  nor  hearing. 
Neither  by  waterfall  lulled,  nor  folded  in  sylvan  embraces. 
Neither  by  cell  of  the  Sibyl,  nor  stepping  the  Monte  Gen- 
naro, 
Seated  on  Anio's  bank,  nor  sipping  Bandusian  waters. 
But  on  Montorio's  height,  looking  down  on  the  tile-clad 

streets,  the 
Cupolas,  crosses,  and  domes,  the  bushes  and  kitchen-gar- 
dens, 

1      domus  AlbunesG  resonantis, 

Et  nrseceps  Aiiio,  et  Tibiirni  lucus,  et  uda 
Mobilibus  pomaria  rivis. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  271 

Which,  by  the  grace  of  the  Tibur,  proclaim  themselves 

Rome  of  the  Romans,  — 
But  on  Montorio's  height,  looking  forth  to  the  vapoury 

mountains. 
Cheating  the  prisoner  Hope  with  illusions  of  vision  and 

fancy,  — 
But  on  Montorio's  height,  with  these  weary  soldiers  by 

me. 
Waiting  till  Oudinot  enter,  to  reinstate  Pope  and  Tourist. 

XII.     MARY   TREVELLYN    TO   MISS    ROPER. 

Dear  Miss  Roper,  —  It  seems,  George  Vernon,  before 
we  left  Rome,  said 

Something  to  Mr.  Claude  about  what  they  call  his  atten- 
tions. 

Susan,  two  nights  ago,  for  the  first  time,  heard  this  from 
Georgina. 

It  is  so  disagreeable  and  so  annoying  to  think  of ! 

If  it  could  only  be  known,  though  we  may  never  meet 
him  again,  that 

It  was  all  George's  doing,  and  we  were  entirely  uncon- 
scious. 

It  would  extremely  relieve  —  Your  ever  affectionate  Mary. 

P.S.  (1) 

Here  is  your  letter  arrived  this  moment,  just  as  I 
wanted. 

So  you  have  seen  him,  —  indeed,  and  guessed,  —  how 
dreadfully  clever ! 

What  did  he  really  say  ?  and  what  was  your  answer  ex- 
actly ? 

Charming !  —  but  wait  for  a  moment,  I  haven't  read 
through  the  letter. 

P.S.  (2) 

Ah,  my  dearest  Miss  Roper,  do  just  as  you  fancy  about 

it. 
If  you  think  it  sincerer  to  tell  him  I  know  of  it,  do  so. 
Though  I  should  most  extremely  dislike  it,  I  know  I 

could  manage. 
It  is  the  simplest  thing,  but  surely  wholly  uncalled  for. 
Do  as  you  please ;  you  know  I  trust  implicitly  to  you. 


272  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Say  whatever  is  right  and  needful  for  ending  the  matter. 

Only  don't  tell  Mr.  Claude,  what  I  will  tell  you  as  a 
secret 

That  I  should  like  very  well  to  show  him  myself  I  for- 
get it. 

P.S.  (3) 

I  am  to  say  that  the  wedding  is  finally  settled  for 

Tuesday. 
Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Roper,  you  surely,  surely  can  manage 
Not  to  let  it  appear  that  I  know  of  that  odious  matter. 
It  would  be  pleasanter  far  for  myself  to  treat  it  exactly 
As  if  it  had  not  occurred :  and  I  do  not  think  he  would 

like  it. 
I  must  remember  to  add  that  as  soon  as  the  wedding  is 

over 
We  shall  be  off,  I  believe,  in  a  hurry,  and  travel  to  Milan ; 
There  to  meet  friends  of  Papa's,  I  am  told,  at  the  Croce 

di  Malta ; 
Then  I  cannot  say  whither,  but  not  at  present  to  England. 

XIII.     CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Yes,  on  Montorio's  height  for  a  last  farewell  of  the  city,  — 
So  it  appears ;  though  then  I  was  quite  uncertain  about 

it. 
So,  however,  it  was.     And  now  to  explain  the  proceeding. 
I  was  to  go,  as  I  told  you,  I  think,  with  the  people  to 

Florence. 
Only  the  day  before,  the  foolish  family  Vernon 
Made  some  uneasy  remarks,  as  we  walked  to  our  lodging 

together, 
As  to  intentions  forsooth,  and  so  forth.     I  was  astounded, 
Horrified  quite ;  and  obtaining  just  then,  as  it  happened, 

an  offer 
(No  common  favour)  of  seeing  the  great  Ludovisi  collection, 
Why,  I  made  this  a  pretence,  and  wrote  that  they  must 

excuse  me. 
How  could  I  go  ?    Great  Heavens !  to  conduct  a  permitted 

flirtation 
Under  those  vulgar  eyes,  the  observed  of  such  observers ! 
Well,  but  I  now,  by  a  series  of  fine  diplomatic  inquiries, 
Pind  from  a  sort  of  relation,  a  good  and  sensible  woman, 


AMOURS  DE   VOYAGE.  273 

Who  is  remaining   at  Rome  with  a  brother  too  ill  for 

removal, 
That  it  was  wholly  unsanctioned,  unknown, — not,  I  think, 

by  Georgina : 
She,  however,  ere  this,  —  and  that  is  the  best  of  the 

story,  — 
She  and  the  Vernon,  thank  Heaven,  are  wedded  and 

gone  —  honeymooning. 
So  —  on  Montorio's  height  for   a  last  farewell   of  the 

city. 
Tibur  I  have  not  seen,  nor  the  lakes  that  of  old  I  had 

dreamt  of ; 
Tibur  I  shall  not  see,  nor  Anio's  waters,  nor  deep  en- 
Folded  in  Sabine  recesses  the  valley  and  villa  of  Horace ; 
Tibur  I  shall  not   see; — but  something  better  I  shall 

see. 
Twice  I  have  tried  before,  and  failed  in  getting  the 

horses ; 
Twice  I  have  tried  and  failed :  this  time  it  shall  not  be  a 

failure. 


TJierefore  farewell,  ye    Mils,   and    ye,    ye  envineyarded 
ruins ! 
TJierefore  farewell,  ye  walls,  palaces,  pillars,  and  domes  ! 
Tlierefore   farewell,   far    seen,   ye   peaks   of  the    mythic 
Albano, 
Seen  from  Montorio's  height,  Tibur  and  u^stda's  hills  ! 
All,  could  ice  once,  ere  we  go,  could  we  stand,  while,  to  ocean 
descending. 
Sinks  o'er  the  yellow  dark  plain  slowly  the  yellow  broad 
sun. 
Stand,  from  the  forest  emerging  at  sunset,  at  once  in  the 
champaign. 
Open,  but  studded  with  trees,  chestnuts  umbrageous  and 
old. 
E'en  in  those  fair  open  fields  that  incurve  to  thy  beautiful 
hollow, 
Nemi,  embedded  in  wood,  Nemi,  inumed  in  the  hill !  — 
TJierefore  farewell,  ye  plains,  and  ye  Jiills,  and  tJie  City 
Eternal ! 
TJierefore  farewell !     We  depart,  hut  to  beJiold  you  again  I 


274  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 


Canto  IV. 

Eastward,  or  Northward,  or  West?    I  wander  and  ask  as 
I  wander; 
Weary,  yet  eager  and  sure,  Where  shall  I  come  to  my 
love  ? 
Whitherward  hasten  to  seek  her?     Ye  daughters  of  Italy, 
tell  me. 
Graceful  and  tender  ayid  dark,  is  she  consorting  with  you  ? 
Thou  that  out-climbest  the  torrent,  that  tendest  thy  goats  to 
the  summit. 
Call  to  me,  child  of  the  Alp,  has  she  been  seen  on  the 
heights  ? 
Italy,  farewell  Ibid  thee  !  for  whither  she  leads  me,  I  follow. 
Farewell  the  vineyard !  for  I,  where  I  but  guess  her,  must 

go; 

Weariness  welcome,  and  labour,  wherever  it  be,  if  at  last  it 
Bring  me  in  mountain  or  plain  into  the  sight  of  my  love. 

I.   CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE,  — from  Florence. 

Gone  from  Florence ;  indeed !  and  that  is  truly  provok- 
ing;— 

Gone  to  Milan,  it  seems ;  then  I  go  also  to  Milan. 

Five  days  now  departed ;  but  they  can  travel  but  slowly ;  — 

I  quicker  far ;  and  I  know,  as  it  happens,  the  house  they 
will  go  to.  — 

Why,  what  else  should  I  do  ?  Stay  here  and  look  at  the 
pictures, 

Statues,  and  churches  ?  Alack,  I  am  sick  of  the  statues 
and  pictures !  — 

No,  to  Bologna,  Parma,  Piacenza,  Lodi,  and  Milan, 

Off  go  we  to-night,  —  and  the  Venus  go  to  the  Devil! 

II.   CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE,  — from  Bellaggio. 

Gone  to  Como,  they  said ;  and  I  have  posted  to  Como. 
There  was  a  letter  left ;  but  the  cameriere  had  lost  it. 
Could  it  have  been  for  me  ?     They  came,  however,  to 

Como, 
And  from   Como  went  by  the  boat,  —  perhaps  to  the 

SplUgen,— 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  275 

Or  to  the  Stelvio,  say,  and  the  Tyrol;  also  it  might  be 
By  Porlezza  across  to  Lugano,  and  so  to  the  Simplon 
Possibly,  or  the  St.  Gothard,  —  or  possibly,  too,  to  Baveno, 
Orta,   Turin,    and    elsewhere.      Indeed,  I    am    greatly 
bewildered. 


III.   CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE,  — frofti  Bellaggio. 

I  HAVE  been  up  the  Splllgen,  and  on  the  Stelvio  also : 
Neither  of  these  can  I  find  they  have  followed ;  in  no  one 

inn,  and 
This  would  be  odd,  have  they  written  their  names.     I 

have  been  to  Porlezza ; 
There  they  have  not  been  seen,  and  therefore  not  at 

Lugano. 
What  shall  I  do  ?     Go  on  through  the  Tyrol,  Switzerland, 

Deutschland, 
Seeking,  an  inverse  Saul,  a  kingdom  to  find  only  asses  ? 
There  is  a  tide,  at  least,  in  the  love  affairs  of  mortals. 
Which,  when  taken  at  flood,  leads  on  to   the  happiest 

fortune,  — 
Leads  to  the  marriage-morn  and  the  orange-flowers  and 

the  altar, 
And  the  long  lawful  line  of  crowned  joys  to  crowned  joys 

succeeding.  — 
Ah,  it  has  ebbed  with  me !     Ye  gods,  and  when  it  was 

flowing. 
Pitiful  fool  that  I  was,  to  stand  fiddle-faddling  in  that 

way ! 


IV.   CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE,  — from  Bellaggio. 

I  HAVE  returned  and  found  their  names  in  the  book  at 
Como. 

Certain  it  is  I  was  right,  and  yet  I  am  also  in  error. 

Added  in  feminine  hand,  I  read.  By  the  boat  to  Bellag- 
gio. — 

So  to  Bellaggio  again,  with  the  wo*ds  of  her  writing  to 
aid  me. 

Yet  at  Bellaggio  I  find  no  trace,  no  sort  of  remembrance. 

So  I  am  here,  and  wait,  and  know  every  hour  will  remove 
them. 


276  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 


V.   CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE,  — from  Belloggw. 

I  HAVE  but  one  chance  left,  —  and  that  is  going  to 

Florence. 
But  it  is  cruel  to  turn.     The  mountains  seem  to  demand 

me, — 
Peak   and  valley  from  far  to  beckon  and  motion  me 

onward. 
Somewhere   amid  their  folds   she  passes  whom  fain  I 

would  follow ; 
Somewhere  among  those  heights  she  haply  calls  me  to 

seek  her. 
Ah,  could  I  hear  her  call !  could  I  catch  the  glimpse  of 

her  raiment ! 
Turn,  however,  I  must,  though  it  seem  I  turn  to  desert 

her; 
For  the  sense  of  the  thing  is  simply  to  hurry  to  Florence, 
Where  the  certainty  yet  may  be  learnt,  I  suppose,  from 

the  Eopers ! 

VI.     MART   TREVELLYN,  from   Luceme,    TO    MISS    ROPER, 

at  Florence. 

Dear  Miss  Eoper,  —  By  this  you  are  safely  away,  we 
are  hoping. 

Many  a  league  from  Kome ;  ere  long  we  trust  we  shall 
see  you. 

How  have  you  travelled  ?  I  wonder ;  —  was  Mr.  Claude 
your  companion  ? 

As  for  ourselves,  we  went  from  Como  straight  to  Lugano; 

So  by  the  Mount  St.  Gothard ;  we  meant  to  go  by  Por- 
lezza, 

Taking  the  steamer,  and  stopping,  as  you  had  advised,  at 
Bellaggio, 

Two  or  three  days  or  more;  but  this  was  suddenly  al- 
tered, 

After  we  left  the  hot^,  on  the  very  way  to  the  steamer. 

So  we  have  seen,  I  fear,  not  one  of  the  lakes  in  perfec- 
tion. 
Well,  he  is  not  come,  and  now,  I  suppose,  he  will  not 
come. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  277 

What  will  you  think,  meantime  ?  and  yet  I  must  really 

confess  it ;  — 
What  will  you  say  ?    I  wrote  him  a  note.    We  left  in  a 

hurry, 
Went  from  Milan  to  Como,  three  days  before  we  expected. 
But  I  thought,  if  he  came  all  the  way  to  Milan,  he  really 
Ought  not  to  be  disappointed:    and  so  I  wrote   three 

lines  to 
Say  I  had  heard  he  was  coming,  desirous  of  joining  our 

party ;  — 
If  so,  then  I  said,  we  had  started  for  Como,  and  meant  to 
Cross  the  St.  Gothard,  and  stay,  we  believed,  at  Lucerne, 

for  the  summer. 
Was  it  wrong  ?  and  why,  if  it  was,  has  it  failed  to  bring 

him? 
Did  he  not  think  it  worth  while  to  come  to  Milan  ?     He 

knew  (you 
Told  him)  the  house  we  should  go  to.     Or  may  it,  per- 
haps, have  miscarried  ? 
Anyway,  now  I  repent,  and  am  heartily  vexed  that  I 

wrote  it. 


Tliere  is  a  home  on  the  shores  of  the  Alpine  sea,  that  upswelUng 

High  up  the  mountain-sides  spreads  in  the  hollows  be- 
tween ; 
Wilderness,  mountain,  and  snoio  from  the  land  of  the  olive 
conceal  it; 

Under  Pilatus^s  hill  low  by  its  river  it  lies : 
Italy,  utter  the  word,  and  the  olive  and  vine  will  allure  not,  — 

Wilderness,  forest,  and  snoiv  will  not  the  jjassage  impede; 
Italy,  unto  thy  cities  receding,  the  clue  to  recover. 

Hither,  recovered  the  clue,  shall  not  the  traveller  haste  ? 


Canto  V. 

There  is  a  city,  upbuilt  on  the  quays  of  the  turbtdent  Amo, 
Under  Fiesole's  heights,  —  thither  are  we  to  return? 

There  is  a  city  that  fringes  the  curve  of  the  inflowing  waters, 
Under  the  perilous  hill  fringes  the  heautiful  bay, — 

Parthenope,  do  they  call  thee  ?  —  the  Siren,  Neapolis,  seated 
Under  Vesevus's  hill,  —  are  we  receding  to  thee?  — 


278  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Sicily,  Greece,  will  invite,  and  the  Orient;  —  or  are  we  to 
turn  to 
England,  which  may  after  all  be  for  its  children  the  best  ? 

I.    MART   TREVBLLYN,  Ot   LuCCme,  TO    MISS   ROPER,  at 

Florence. 

So  you  are  really  free,  and  living  in  quiet  at  Florence ; 
That  is  delightful  news ;  you  travelled  slowly  and  safely ; 
Mr.  Claude  got  you  out ;  took  rooms  at  Florence  before 

you-, 
Wrote   from   Milan   to   say   so;    had  left    directly    for 

Milan, 
Hoping  to  find  us  soon ;  —  if  he  could,  he  loordd,  you  are 

certain.  — 
Dear  Miss  Roper,  your  letter  has  made  me  exceedingly 

happy. 
You  are  quite  sure,  you  say,  he  asked  you  about  our 

intentions ; 
You  had  not  heard  as  yet  of  Lucerne,  but  told  him  of 

Como.  — 
Well,  perhaps  he  will  come ;  however,  I  will  not  expect 

it. 
Though  you  say  you  are  sure,  —  if  he  can,  he  will,  you  are  • 

certain. 
0  my  dear,  many  thanks  from  your  ever  affectionate 

Mary. 

II.    CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Florence. 

Action'  will  furnish  belief,  —  but  will  that  belief  be  the 

true  one  ? 
This  is  the  point,  you  know.     However,  it  doesn't  much 

matter. 
What  one  wants,  I  suppose,  is  to  predetermine  the  action. 
So  as  to  make  it  entail,  not  a  chance  belief,  but  the  true 

one. 
Out  of  the  question,  you  say  ;  if  a  thing  isnH  wrong  we  may 

do  it. 
Ah !  but  this  wrong,  you  see  —  but  I  do  not  know  that  it 

matters. 
Eustace,  the  Ropers  are  gone,  and  no  one  can  tell  me 

about  them. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  279 

Pisa. 
Pisa,  they  say  they  think,  and  so  I  follow  to  Pisa, 
Hither  and  thither  inquiring.     I  weary  of  making  in- 
quiries. 
I  am  ashamed,  I  declare,  of  asking  people  about  it.  — 
Who  are  your  friends  ?     You  said  you  had  friends  who 
would  certainly  know  them. 

Florence. 

But  it  is  idle,  moping,  and  thinking,  and  trying  to  fix 
her 

Image  more  and  more  in,  to  write  the  whole  perfect  in- 
scription 

Over  and  over  again  upon  every  page  of  remembrance. 
I  have  settled  to  stay  at  Florence  to  wait  for  your 
answer. 

Who  are  your  friends  ?     Write  quickly  and  tell  me.     I 
wait  for  your  answer. 

III.     MARY  TREVELLYN  TO   MISS    ROPER, at  LuCCa  BotllS. 

You  are  at  Lucca  Baths,  you  tell  me,  to  stay  for  the  sum- 
mer; 

Florence  was  quite  too  hot ;  you  can't  move  further  at 
present. 

Will  you  not  come,  do  you  think,  before  the  summer  is 
over  ? 
Mr.  C.  got  you  out  with  very  considerable  trouble ; 

And  he  was  useful  and  kind,  and  seemed  so  happy  to 
serve  you. 

Didn't  stay  with  you  long,  but  talked  very  openly  to  you ; 

Made  you  almost  his  confessor,   without  appearing  to 
know  it,  — 

What  about?  —  and  you  say  you  didn't  need  his  confes- 
sions. 

0  my  dear  Miss  Roper,  I  dare  not  trust  what  you  tell 
me! 
Will  he  come,  do  you  think  ?    I  am  really  so  sorry  for 
him. 

They. didn't  give  him  my  letter  at  Milan,  I  feel  pretty 
certain. 

You  had  told  him  Bellaggio.    We  didn't  go  to  Bellaggio ; 

So  he  would  miss  our  track,  and  perhaps  never  come  to 
Lugano, 


280  ~  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Where  we  were  written  in  full,  To  Lucerne  across  the  St. 

GotJiard. 
But  he  could  write  to  you ;  —  you  would  tell  him  where 

you  were  going. 

IV.     CLAUDE    TO   EUSTACE. 

Let  me,  then,  bear  to  forget  her.     I  will  not  cling  to  her 

falsely : 
Nothing  factitious  or  forced  shall  impair  the  old  happy 

relation. 
I  will  let  myself  go,  forget,  not  try  to  remember ; 
I  will  walk  on  my  way,  accept  the  chances  that  meet  me, 
Ereely  encounteir  the  world,  imbibe  these  alien  airs,  and 
Never  ask  if  new  feelings  and  thoughts  are  of  her  or 

of  others. 
Is  she  not  changing  herself?  —  the  old  image  would  only 

delude  me. 
I  will  be  bold,  too,  and  change,  —  if  it  must  be.     Yet  if 

in  all  things. 
Yet  if  I  do  but  aspire  evermore  to  the  Absolute  only, 
I  shall  be  doing,  I  think,  somehow,  what  she  will  be 

doing;  — 
I  shall  be  thine,  0  my  child,  some  way,  though  I  know 

not  in  what  way, 
Let  me  submit  to  forget  her ;  I  must ;  I  already  forget 

her. 

V.    CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Utterly  vain  is,  alas !  this  attempt  at  the  Absolute,  — 
wholly ! 

I,  who  believed  not  in  her,  because  I  would  fain  believe 
nothing, 

Have  to  believe  as  I  may,  with  a  wilful,  unmeaning  ac- 
ceptance. 

I,  who  refused  to  enfasten  the  roots  of  my  floating  existence 

In  the  rich  earth,  cling  now  to  the  hard,  naked  rock  that 
is  left  me,  — 

Ah !  she  was  worthy,  Eustace,  —  and  that,  indeed,  is  my 
comfort,  — 

Worthy  a  nobler  heart  than  a  fool  such  as  I  could  have 
given  her. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  281 

Yes,  it  relieves  me  to  write,  though  I  do  not  send,  and 
the  chance  that 

Takes  may  destroy  my  fragments.  But  as  men  pray, 
without  asking 

Whether  One  really  exist  to  hear  or  do  anything  for 
them,  — 

Simply  impelled  by  the  need  of  the  moment  to  turn  to  a 
Being 

In  a  conception  of  whom  there  is  freedom  from  all  limi- 
tation, — 

So  in  your  image  I  turn  to  an  ens  rationis  of  friendship, 

Even  so  write  in  your  name  I  know  not  to  whom  nor  in 
what  wise. 


There  was  a  time,  methought  it  was  but  lately  departed. 

When,  if  a  thing  was  denied  me,  I  felt  I  was  bound  to 
attempt  it : 

Choice  alone  should  take,  and  choice  alone  should  sur- 
render. 

There  was  a  time,  indeed,  when  I  had  not  retired  thus 
early, 

Languidly  thus,  from  pursuit  of  a  purpose  I  once  had 
adopted. 

But  it  is  over,  all  that !  I  have  slunk  from  the  perilous 
field  in 

Whose  wild  struggle  of  forces  the  prizes  of  life  are  con- 
tested. 

It  is  over,  all  that !     I  am  a  coward,  and  know  it. 

Courage  in  me  could  be  only  factitious,  unnatural,  useless. 


CoMFOKT  has  come  to  me  here  in  the  dreary  streets  of 
the  city. 

Comfort  —  how  do  you  think  ?  —  with  a  barrel-organ  to 
bring  it. 

Moping  along  the  streets,  and  cursing  my  day  as  I  wan- 
dered. 

All  of  a  sudden  my  ear  met  the  sound  of  an  English 
psalm-tune, 

Comfort  me  it  did,  till  indeed  I  was  very  near  crying. 

Ah,  there  is  some  great  truth,  partial,  very  likely,  but 
needful, 


282  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Lodged,  I  am  strangely  sure,  in  the  tones  of  the  English 

psalm-tune : 
Comfort  it  was  at  least ;  and  I  must  take  without  question 
Comfort,  however  it  come,  in  the  dreary  streets  of  the  city. 


What  with  trusting  myself,  and  seeking  support  from 
within  me, 

Almost  I  could  believe  I  had  gained  a  religious  assurance, 

Formed  in  my  own  poor  soul  a  great  moral  basis  to  rest  on. 

Ah,  but  indeed  I  see,  I  feel  it  factitious  entirely ; 

I  refuse,  reject,  and  put  it  utterly  from  me  ; 

I  will  look  straight  out,  see  things,  not  try  to  evade  them ; 

Fact  shall  be  fact  for  me,  and  the  Truth  the  Truth  as  ever, 

Flexible,  changeable,  vague,  and  multiform,  and  doubt- 
ful.— 

Off,  and  depart  to  the  void,  thou  subtle,  fanatical  tempter ! 


I  SHALL  behold  thee  again  (is  it  so  ?)  at  a  new  visitar 
tion, 

0  ill  genius  thou  !  I  shall  at  my  life's  dissolution 
(When  the  pulses  are  weak,  and  the  feeble  light  of  the 

reason 
Flickers,  an  unfed  flame  retiring  slow  from  the  socket), 
Low  on  a  sick-bed  laid,  hear  one,  as  it  were,  at  the  door- 
way. 
And,  looking  up,  see  thee  standing  by,  looking  emptily 
at  me; 

1  shall  entreat  thee  then,  though  now  I  dare  to  refuse 

thee,  — 
Pale  and  pitiful  now,  but  terrible  then  to  the  dying.  — 
Well,  I  will  see  thee  again,  and  while  I  can,  will  repel 

thee. 

VI.    CLAUDE   TO   EUSTACE. 

Rome  is  fallen,  I  hear,  the  gallant  Medici  taken, 
Noble  Manara  slain,  and  Garibaldi  has  lost  il  Moro;  — 
Rome  is  fallen ;  and  fallen,  or  falling,  heroical  Venice. 
I,  meanwhile,  for  the  loss  of  a  single  small  chit  of  a  girl, 
sit 


AMOURS  DE   VOYAGE.  283 

Moping  and  mourning  here,  —  for  her,  and  myself  much 
smaller. 
Whither  depart  the  souls  of  the  brave  chat  die  in  the 
battle. 

Die  in  the  lost,  lost  fight,  for  the  cause  that  perishes  with 
them  ? 

Are  they  upborne  from  the  field  on  the  slumberous  pin- 
ions of  angels 

Unto  a  far-off  home,  where  the  weary  rest  from  their 
labour, 

And  the  deep  wounds  are  healed,  and  the  bitter  and  burn- 
ing moisture 

Wiped  from  the  generous  eyes  ?  or  do  they  linger,  un- 
happy, 

Pining,  and  haunting  the  grave  of  their  by-gone  hope  and 
endeavour  ? 
All  declamation,  alas  !  though  I  talk,  I  care  not  for 
Rome  nor 

Italy;  feebly  and  faintly,  and  but  with  the  lips,  can  Isb- 
nient  the 

Wreck  of  the  Lombard  youth,  and  the  victory  of  the  op- 
pressor. 

Whither  depart  the  brave  ?  —  God  knows ;  I  certainly 
do  not. 

VII.    MARY   TREVBLLYN   TO    MISS    ROPER. 

He  has  not  come  as  yet ;  and  now  I  must  not  expect  it. 

You  have  written,  you  say,  to  friends  at  Florence,  to  see 
him, 

If  he  perhaps  should  return ;  —  but  that  is  surely  un- 
likely. 

Has  he  not  written  to  you  ?  —  he  did  not  know  your  di- 
rection. 

Oh,  hoAv  strange  never  once  to  have  told  him  where  you 


were  going 


Yet  if  he  only  wrote  to  Florence,  that  would  have  reached 

you. 
If  what  you  say  he  said  was  true,  why  has  he  not  done 

so? 
Is  he  gone  back  to  Rome,  do  you  think,  to  his  Vatican 

marbles  ?  — 
0  my  dear  Miss  Roper,  forgive  me !   do  not  be  angry !  — 


284  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

You  have  written  to  Florence ;  —  your  friends  would  cer- 
tainly find  him. 

Might  you  not  write  to  him  ?  —  but  yet  it  is  so  little  likely ! 

I  shall  expect  nothing  more.  — Ever  yours,  your  affection- 
ate Mary. 

VIII.     CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE. 

I  CANNOT  stay  at  Florence,  not  even  to  wait  for  a  letter. 

Galleries  only  oppress  me.  Remembrance  of  hope  I  had 
cherished 

(Almost  more  than  as  hope,  when  I  passed  through  Flor- 
ence the  first  time) 

Lies  like  a  sword  in  my  soul.  I  am  more  a  coward  than 
ever, 

Chicken-hearted,  past  thought.  The  caffes  and  waiters 
distress  me. 

All  is  unkind,  and,  alas  !  I  am  ready  for  any  one's  kind- 
ness. 

Oh,  I  knew  it  of  old,  and  knew  it,  I  thought,  to  perfection. 

If  there  is  any  one  thing  in  the  world  to  preclude  all 
kindness. 

It  is  the  need  of  it,  —  it  is  this  sad,  self-defeating  depen- 
dence. 

Why  is  this,  Eustace  ?  Myself,  were  I  stronger,  I  think 
I  could  tell  you. 

But  it  is  odd  when  it  comes.  So  plumb  I  the  deeps  of 
depression. 

Daily  in  deeper,  and  find  no  support,  no  will,  no  purpose. 

All  my  old  strengths  are  gone.  And  yet  I  shall  have  to 
do  something. 

Ah,  the  key  of  our  life,  that  passes  all  wards,  opens  all 
locks 

Is  not  /  will,  but  /  must.    I  must,  — I  must, — and  I  do  it. 


After  all,  do  I  know  that  I  really  cared  so  about  her? 
Do  whatever  I  will,  I  cannot  call  up  her  image ; 
For  when  I  close  my  eyes,  1  see,  very  likely,  St.  Peter's 
Or  the  Pantheon  faqade,  or  Michel  Angelo's  figures. 
Or,  at  a  wish,  when  I  please,  the  Alban  hills  and  the 
Forum,  — 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  285 

But  that  face,  those  eyes,  —  ah,  no,  never  anything  like 

them ; 
Only,  try  as  I  will,  a  sort  of  featureless  outline. 
And  a  pale  blank  orb,  which  no  recollection  will  add  to. 
After  all,  perhaps  there  was  something  factitious  about  it; 
I  have  had  pain,  it  is  true  :  I  have  wept,  and  so  have  the 

actors. 


At  the  last  moment  I  have  your  letter,  for  which  I  was 
waiting ; 

I  have  taken  my  place,  and  see  no  good  in  inquiries. 

Do  nothing  more,  good  Eustace,  I  pray  you.  It  only  will 
vex  me. 

Take  no  measures.  Indeed,  should  we  meet,  I  could  not 
be  certain ; 

All  might  be  changed,  you  know.  Or  perhaps  there  was 
nothing  to  be  changed. 

It  is  a  curious  history,  this;  and  yet  I  foresaw  it; 

I  could  have  told  it  before.  The  Fates,  it  is  clear,  are 
against  us ; 

For  it  is  certain  enough  I  met  with  the  people  you  men- 
tion; 

They  were  at  Florence  the  day  I  returned  there,  and 
spoke  to  me  even; 

Stayed  a  week,  saw  me  often ;  departed,  and  whither  I 
know  not. 

Great  is  Fate,  and  is  best.  I  believe  in  Providence 
partly. 

What  is  ordained  is  right,  and  all  that  happens  is 
ordered. 

Ah,  no,  that  isn't  it.     But  yet  I  retain  my  conclusion. 

I  will  go  where  I  am  led,  and  will  not  dictate  to  the 
chances. 

Do  nothing  more,  I  beg.  If  you  love  me,  forbear  inter- 
fering. 

IX.    CLAUDE   TO    EUSTACE. 

Shall  we  come  out  of  it  all,  some  day,  as  one  does  from 

a  tunnel  ? 
Will  it  be  all  at  once,  without  our  doing  or  asking, 
We  shall  behold  clear  day,  the  trees  and  meadows  about 

us, 


286  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  the  faces  of  friends,  and  the  eyes  we  loved  looking 

at  us  ? 
Who  knows  ?    Who  can  say  ?    It  will  not  do  to  suppose  it. 


X.  CLAUDE  TO  EUSTACE, — from  Rome. 

EoME  will  not  suit  rae,  Eustace ;  the  priests  anck  soldiers 

possess  it ; 
Priests  and  soldiers  :  —  and,  ah !  which  is  the  worst,  the 

priest  or  the  soldier  ? 
Politics,  farewell,  however !      Por  what  could  I  do  ? 

with  inquiring, 
Talking,  collating  the  journals,  go  fever  my  brain  about 

things  o'er 
Which  I  can  have  no  control.    No,  happen  whatever  may 

happen. 
Time,  I  suppose,  will  subsist ;  the  earth  will  revolve  on 

its  axis ; 
People  will  travel ;  the  stranger  will  wander  as  now  in 

the  city ; 
Rome  will  be  here,  and  the  Pope  the  custode  of  Vatican 

marbles. 
I  have  no  heart,  however,  for  any  marble  or  fresco ; 
I  have  essayed  it  in  vain ;  'tis  in  vain  as  yet  to  essay 

it: 
But  I  may  haply  resume  some  day  my  studies  in  this 

kind ; 
Not  as  the  Scripture  says,  is,  I  think,  the  fact.     Ere  our 

death-day, 
Faith,  I  think,  does  pass,   and  Love;  but  Knowledge 

abideth. 
Let  us  seek  Knowledge ;  —  the  rest  may  come  and  go  as 

it  happens. 
Knowledge  is  hard  to  seek,  and  harder  yet  to  adhere  to. 
Knowledge  is  painful  often ;  and  yet  when  we  know  we 

are  happy. 
Seek  it,  and  leave  mere  Faith  and  Love  to  come  with  the 

chances. 
As  for  Hope,  —  to-morrow  T  hope  to  be  starting  for  Naples. 
Rome  will  not  do,  I  see,  for  many  very  good  reasons. 
Eastward,  then,  I  suppose,  with  the  coming  of  winter, 

to  Egypt. 


AMOURS  DE    VOYAGE.  287 


XI.    MARY   TKEVELLYN   TO    MISS    ROPER. 

You  have  heard  nothing ;  of  course  I  know  you  can  have 

heard  nothing. 
Ah,  well,  more  than  once  I  have  broken  my  purpose,  and 

sometimes. 
Only  too  often,  have  looked  for  the  little  lake  steamer  to 

bring  him. 
But  it  is  only  fancy,  —  I  do  not  really  expect  it. 
Oh,  and  you  see  I  know  so  exactly  how  he  would  take  it : 
Finding  the  chances  prevail  against  meeting  again,  he 

would  banish 
Forthwith  every  thought  of  the  poor  little  possible  hope, 

which 
I  myself  could  not  help,  perhaps,  thinking  only  too  much 

of; 
He  would  resign  himself,  and  go.     I  see  it  exactly. 
So  I  also  submit,  although  in  a  different  manner. 
Can  you  not  really  come  ?     We   go  very  shortly  to 

England. 


So  go  forth  to  the  world,  to  the  good  report  and  the  evil  1 
Go,  little  book !  thy  tale,  is  it  not  evil  and  good  ? 

Go,  and  if  strangers  revile,  pass  quietly  by  without  answer. 
Go,  and  if  curious  friends  asJc  of  thy  rearing  and  age. 

Say, '  I  am  flitting  about  many  years  from  brain  unto  brain 

of 
Feeble  and  restless  youths  born  to  inglorious  days : 
But'  so  finish  the  ivord,  '  I  was  writ  in  a  Roman  chamber, 
When  from  Janiculan  heights  thundered  the  cannon  oj 
France.'' 


SEVEN  SONNETS  ON  THE  THOUGHT 
OF  DEATH.i 


oJ<Ko 


That  children  in  their  loveliness  should  die 

Before  the  dawning  beauty,  which  we  know 

Cannot  remain,  has  yet  begun  to  go ; 

That  when  a  certain  period  has  passed  by, 

People  of  genius  and  of  faculty, 

Leaving  behind  them  some  result  to  show. 

Having  performed  some  function,  should  forego 

The  task  which  younger  hands  can  better  ply, 

Appears  entirely  natural.     But  that  one 

Whose  perfectness  did  not  at  all  consist 

In  things  towards  forming  which  time  can  have  done 

Anything,  —  whose  sole  office  was  to  exist, 

Should  suddenly  dissolve  and  cease  to  be 

Is  the  extreme  of  all  perplexity. 


II. 

That  there  are  better  things  within  the  womb 
Of  Nature  than  to  our  unworthy  view 
She  grants  for  a  possession,  may  be  true : 
The  cycle  of  the  birthplace  and  the  tomb 

^  These  sonnets  have  been  brought  together  from  very  imperfect 
manuscripts.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  their  author  would  have 
given  them  to  the  public  in  their  present  state ;  but  they  are  in  parts 
so  characteristic  of  his  tliought  and  style,  that  they  will  not  be  without 
interest  to  the  readers  of  his  poems. 

289 


290  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Fulfils  at  least  the  order  and  the  doom 

Of  earth,  that  has  not  ordmance  to  do 

More  than  to  withdraw  and  to  renew, 

To  show  one  moment  and  the  next  resume : 

The  law  that  we  return  from  whence  we  came, 

May  for  the  flowers,  beasts,  and  most  men  remain; 

If  for  ourselves,  we  ask  not  nor  complajn : 

But  for  a  being  that  demands  the  name 

We  highest  deem  —  a  Person  and  a  Soul  — 

It  troubles  us  that  this  should  be  the  whole. 


III. 


To  see  the  rich  autumnal  tint  depart. 
And  view  the  fading  of  the  roseate  glow 
That  veils  some  Alpine  altitude  of  snow, 
To  hear  of  some  great  masterpiece  of  art 
Lost  or  destroyed,  may  to  the  adult  heart, 
Impatient  of  the  transitory  show 
Of  lovelinesses  that  but  come  and  go, 
A  positive  strange  thankfulness  impart. 
When  human  pure  perfections  disappear, 
Not  at  the  first,  but  at  some  later  day, 
The  buoyancy  of  such  reaction  may 
With  strong  assurance  conquer  blank  dismay. 


rv. 

But  whether  in  the  uncoloured  light  of  truth, 
Tliis  inward  strong  assurance  be,  indeed, 
More  than  the  self-willed  arbitrary  creed. 
Manhood's  inheritor  to  the  dream  of  youth ; 
Whetlier  to  shut  out  fact  because  forsooth 
To  live  were  insupportable  unfreed, 
Be  not  or  be  the  service  of  untruth : 
Whether  this  vital  confidence  be  more 
Than  his  who,  upon  death's  immediate  brink, 
Knowing,  perforce  determines  to  ignore ; 
Or  tlian  the  bird's,  that  wlien  the  hunter's  near, 
Burying  her  eyesight,  can  forget  her  fear; 
Who  about  this  sliall  tell  us  what  to  think  ? 


SONNETS   ON   THE    THOUGHT  OF  DEATH.     291 


V. 

If  it  is  thou  whose  casual  hand  withdraws 
What  it  at  first  as  casually  did  make, 
Say  what  amount  of  ages  it  will  take 
With  tardy  rare  concurrences  of  laws, 
And  subtle  multiplicities  of  cause, 
The  thing  they  once  had  made  us  to  remake ; 
May  hopes  dead  slumbering  dare  to  reawake. 
E'en  after  utmost  interval  of  pause, 
What  revolutions  must  have  passed,  before 
The  great  celestial  cycles  shall  restore 
The  starry  sign  whose  present  hour  is  gone ; 
What  worse  than  dubious  chances  interpose, 
With  cloud  and  sunny  gleams  to  recompose 
The  skyey  picture  we  had  gazed  upon. 


VT. 

But  if  as  not  by  that  the  soul  desired 

Swayed  in  the  judgment,  wisest  men  have  thought, 

And  furnishing  the  evidence  it  sought, 

Man's  heart  hath  ever  fervently  required. 

And  story,  for  that  reason  deemed  inspired. 

To  every  clime,  in  every  age,  hath  taught; 

If  in  this  human  complex  there  be  aught 

Not  lost  in  death,  as  not  in  birth  acquired, 

0  then,  though  cold  the  lips  that  did  convey 

Rich  freights  of  meaning,  dead  each  living  sphere 

Where  thought  abode,  and  fancy  loved  to  play. 

Thou  yet,  we  think,  somewhere  somehow  still  art. 

And  satisfied  with  that  the  patient  heart 

The  where  and  how  doth  not  desire  to  hear. 


VII. 

Shall  I  decide  it  by  a  random  shot  ? 

Our  happy  hopes,  so  happy  and  so  good. 

Are  not  mere  idle  motions  of  the  blood ; 

And  when  they  seem  most  baseless,  most  are  not. 

A  seed  there  must  have  been  upon  the  spot 


292  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

Where  the  flowers  grow,  without  it  ne'er  they  could ; 

The  confidence  of  growth  least  understood 

Of  some  deep  intuition  was  begot. 

What  if  despair  and  hope  alike  be  true  ? 

The  heart,  'tis  manifest,  is  free  to  do 

Whichever  Nature  and  itself  suggest. 

And  always  'tis  a  fact  that  we  are  here. 

And  with  being  here,  doth  palsy-giving  fear 

(Whoe'er  can  ask  or  hope)  accord  the  best  ? 


MARI   MAGNO;   OR,   TALES   ON  BOARD.^ 


A  YOUTH  was  I.     An  elder  friend  witli  me, 
'Twas  in  September  o'er  the  autumnal  sea 
We  went ;  the  wide  Atlantic  ocean  o'er 
Two  amongst  many  the  strong  steamer  bore. 

Delight  it  was  to  feel  that  wondrous  force 
That  held  us  steady  to  our  proposed  course, 
The  burning  resolute  victorious  will 
'Gainst  winds  and  waves  that  strive  unwavering  still. 
Delight  it  was  with  each  returning  day 
To  learn  the  ship  had  won  upon  her  way 
Her  sum  of  miles,  —  delight  were  mornings  grey 
And  gorgeous  eves, — -nor  was  it  less  delight, 
On  each  more  temperate  and  favouring  night, 
I'riend  with  familiar  or  with  new-found  friend. 
To  pace  the  deck,  and  o'er  the  bulwarks  bend. 
And  the  night  watches  in  long  converse  spend ; 
While  still  new  subjects  and  new  thoughts  arise 
Amidst  the  silence  of  the  seas  and  skies. 

Amongst  the  mingled  multitude  a  few, 
Some  three  or  four,  towards  us  early  drew ; 
We  proved  each  other  with  a  day  or  two ; 
Night  after  night  some  three  or  four  we  walked 
x\nd  talked,  and  talked,  and  infinitely  talked. 

Of  the  New  England  ancient  blood  was  one; 
His  youthful  spurs  in  letters  he  had  won, 
Unspoilt  by  that,  to  Europe  late  had  come,  — 
Hope   long  deferred,  —  and   went  unspoilt   by   Europe 
home. 

i  These  Tales  were  written  only  a  few  months  before  the  writer's 
death,  during  his  journeys  in  Greece,  Italy,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and  had 
not  been  revised  by  him, 

293 


294  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

What  racy  tales  of  Yankeeland  he  had  ! 
Up-country  girl,  up-country  farmer  lad  ; 
The  regnant  clergy  of  the  time  of  old 
In  wig  and  gown ;  —  tales  not  to  be  retold 
By  me.     I  could  but  spoil  were  I  to  tell : 
Himself  must  do  it  who  can  do  it  well. 

An  English  clergyman  came  spick  and  span 
In  black  and  white  —  a  large  well-favoured  man, 
"Fifty  years  old,  as  near  as  one  could  guess. 
He  looked  the  dignitary  more  or  less. 
A  rural  dean,  I  said,  he  was,  at  least. 
Canon  perhaps  ;  at  many  a  good  man's  feast 
A  guest  had  been,  amongst  the  choicest  there. 
Manly  his  voice  and  manly  was  his  air : 
At  the  first  sight  you  felt  he  had  not  known 
The  things  pertaining  to  his  cloth  alone. 
Chairman  of  Quarter  Sessions  had  he  been  ? 
Serious  and  calm,  'twas  plain  he  much  had  seen, 
Had  miscellaneous  large  experience  had 
Of  human  acts,  good,  half  and  half,  and  bad. 
Serious  and  calm,  yet  lurked,  I  know  not  why, 
At  times,  a  softness  in  his  voice  and  eye. 
Some  shade  of  ill  a  prosperous  life  had  crossed ; 
Married  no  doubt :  a  wife  or  child  had  lost  ? 
He  never  told  us  why  he  passed  the  sea. 

My  guardian  friend  was  now,  at  thirty-three, 
A  rising  lawyer  —  ever,  at  the  best. 
Slow  rises  worth  in  lawyer's  gown  compressed; 
Succeeding  now,  yet  just,  and  only  just, 
His  new  success  he  never  seemed  to  trust. 
By  nature  he  to  gentlest  thoughts  inclined, 
To  most  severe  had  disci])lined  his  mind  ; 
He  held  it  duty  to  be  half  luikind. 
Bitter,  they  said,  who  but  the  exterior  knew ; 
In  friendship  never  was  a  friend  so  true  : 
The  unwelcome  fact  he  did  not  shrink  to  tell, 
The  good,  if  fact,  he  recognised  as  well. 
Stout  to  maintain,  if  not  the  first  to  see ; 
In  conversation  who  so  great  as  he  ? 
Leading  but  seldom,  always  sure  to  guide, 
To  false  or  silly,  if  'twas  borne  aside. 
His  quick  correction  silent  he  expressed, 
And  stopped  you  short,  and  forced  you  to  your  beat. 


MARI  MAGNO.  295 

Often,  I  think,  he  suffered  from  some  pain 
Of  mind,  that  on  the  body  worked  again ; 
One  felt  it  in  his  sort  of  half-disdain, 
Impatient  not,  but  acrid  in  his  speech ; 
The  world  with  him  her  lesson  failed  to  teach 
To  take  things  easily  and  let  them  go. 

He,  for  what  special  fitness  I  scarce  know, 
For  which  good  quality,  or  if  for  all, 
With  less  of  reservation  and  recall 
And  speedier  favour  than  I  e'er  had  seen. 
Took,  as  we  called  him,  to  the  rural  dean. 
As  grew  the  gourd,  as  grew  the  stalk  of  bean, 
So  swift  it  seemed,  betwixt  these  differing  two 
A  stately  trunk  of  confidence  up-grew. 

Of  marriage  long  one  night  they  held  discourse ; 
Regarding  it  in  dilferent  ways,  of  course. 
Marriage  is  discipline,  the  wise  had  said, 
A  needful  human  discipline  to  wed ; 
Novels  of  course  depict  it  final  bliss,  — 
Say,  had  it  ever  really  once  been  this  ? 

Our  Yankee  friend  (whom,  ere  the  night  was  done, 
We  called  New  England  or  the  Pilgrim  Son), 
A  little  tired  made  bold  to  interfere ; 
'  Appeal,'  he  said,  '  to  me ;  my  sentence  hear. 
You'll  reason  on  till  night  and  reason  fail ; 
My  judgment  is  you  each  shall  tell  a  tale ; 
And  as  on  marriage  you  cannot  agree. 
Of  love  and  marriage  let  the  stories  be.' 
Sentence  delivered,  as  the  younger  man, 
My  lawyer  friend  was  called  on  and  began. 
^  Infandiim  juhes  !   'tis  of  long  ago. 
If  tell  I  must,  I  tell  the  tale  I  know : 
Yet  the  first  person  using  for  the  freak. 
Don't  rashly  judge  that  of  myself  I  speak.' 
So  to  his  tale ;  if  of  himself  or  not 
I  never  learnt,  we  thought  so  on  the  spot. 
Lightly  he  told  it  as  a  thing  of  old, 
And  lightly  I  repeat  it  as  he  told. 


296  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

THE  LAWYER'S  FIRST   TALE. 
Frimitice,  or  Third  Cousins. 


'  Dearest  of  boys,  please  come  to-day, 

Papa  and  mama  have  bid  me  say, 

They  hope  you'll  dine  with  us  at  three ; 

They  will  be  out  till  then,  you  see, 

But  you  will  start  at  once,  you  know, 

And  come  as  fast  as  you  can  go. 

Next  week  they  hope  you'll  come  and  stay 

Some  time  before  you  go  away. 

Dear  boy,  how  pleasant  it  will  be ! 

Ever  your  dearest  Emily ! ' 

Twelve  years  of  age  was  I,  and  she 
Fourteen,  when  thus  she  wrote  to  me, 
A  schoolboy,  with  an  uncle  spending 
My  holidays,  then  nearly  ending. 
My  uncle  lived  the  mountain  o'er, 
A  rector,  and  a  bachelor ; 
The  vicarage  was  by  the  sea. 
That  was  the  home  of  Emily: 
The  windows  to  the  front  looked  down 
Across  a  single-streeted  town, 
Far  as  to  where  Worms-head  was  seen, 
Dim  with  ten  watery  miles  between ; 
The  Carnedd  mountains  on  the  right 
With  stony  masses  filled  the  sight ; 
To  left  the  open  sea ;  the  bay 
In  a  blue  plain  before  you  lay. 

A  garden,  full  of  fruit,  extends, 
Stone-walled,  above  the  house,  and  ends 
With  a  locked  door,  that  by  a  porch 
Admits  to  churchyard  and  to  church  ; 
Farm-buildings  nearer  on  one  side, 
And  glebe,  and  then  the  country  wide. 

I  and  my  cousin  Emily 
Were  cousins  in  the  third  degree ; 
My  mother  near  of  kin  was  reckoned 
To  hers,  who  was  my  mother's  second  : 


MART  MAGNO.  297 

My  cousinship  I  held  from  her. 
Such  an  amount  of  girls  there  were, 
At  first  one  really  was  perplexed  : 
'Twas  Patty  first,  and  Lydia  next, 
And  Emily  the  third,  and  then, 
Philippa,  Phoebe,  Mary  Gwen. 
Six  were  they,  you  perceive,  in  all ; 
And  portraits  fading  on  the  wall, 
Grandmothers,  heroines  of  old, 
And  aunts  of  aunts,  with  scrolls  that  told 
Their  names  and  dates,  were  there  to  show 
Why  these  had  all  been  christened  so. 

The  crowd  of  blooming  daughters  fair, 
Scarce  let  you  see  the  mother  there. 
And  by  her  husband,  large  and  tall. 
She  looked  a  little  shrunk  and  small ; 
Although  my  mother  used  to  tell 
That  once  she  was  a  county  belle : 
Busied  she  seemed,  and  half-distress'd 
For  him  and  them  to  do  the  best. 

The  vicar  was  of  bulk  and  thews. 
Six  feet  he  stood  within  his  shoes. 
And  every  inch  of  all  a  man ; 
Ecclesiast  on  the  ancient  plan. 
Unforced  by  any  party  rule 
His  native  character  to  school ; 
In  ancient  learning  not  unread, 
But  had  few  doctrines  in  his  head ; 
Dissenters  truly  he  abhorr'd. 
They  never  had  his  gracious  word. 
He  ne'er  was  bitter  or  unkind. 
But  positively  spoke  his  mind. 
Their  piety  he  could  not  bear, 
A  sneaking  snivelling  set  they  were : 
Their  tricks  and  meanness  fired  his  blood ; 
Up  for  his  Church  he  stoutly  stood. 
No  worldly  aim  had  he  in  life 
To  set  him  with  himself  at  strife ; 
A  spade  a  spade  he  freely  named. 
And  of  his  joke  was  not  ashamed. 
Made  it  and  laughed  at  it,  be  sure, 
With  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor. 
His  sermons  frequently  he  took 


298  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Out  of  some  standard  reverend  book ; 
They  seemed  a  little  strange,  indeed, 
But  were  not  likely  to  mislead. 
Others  he  gave  that  were  his  own. 
The  difference  could  be  quickly  knoAvn. 

Though  sorry  not  to  have  a  boy, 
His  daughters  were  his  perfect  joy ; 
He  plagued  them,  oft  drew  tears  from  each. 
Was  bold  and  hasty  in  his  speech  ; 
All  through  the  house  you  heard  him  call, 
He  had  his  vocatives  for  all : 
Patty  Patina,  Pat  became, 
Lydia  took  Languish  with  her  name, 
Philippa  was  the  Gentle  Queen, 
And  Phoebe,  Madam  Proserpine ; 
The  pseudonyms  for  Mary  Gwen 
Varied  with  every  week  again  ; 
But  Emily,  of  all  the  set, 
Emilia  called,  was  most  the  pet. 

Soon  as  her  messenger  had  come, 
I  started  from  my  uncle's  home. 
On  an  old  pony  scrambling  down 
Over  the  mountain  to  the  town. 
My  cousins  met  me  at  the  door. 
And  some  behind,  and  some  before, 
Kissed  me  all  round  and  kissed  again, 
The  happy  custom  there  and  then. 
From  Patty  down  to  Mary  Gwen. 

Three  hours  we  had,  and  spent  in  play 
About  the  garden  and  the  hay ; 
We  sat  upon  the  half-built  stack ; 
And  when  'twas  time  for  hurrying  back, 
Slyly  away  the  others  hied. 
And  took  the  ladder  from  the  side ; 
Emily  there,  alone  with  me, 
Was  left  in  close  captivity  ; 
But  down  the  stack  at  last  I  slid. 
And  found  the  ladder  they  had  hid. 

I  left  at  six ;  again  I  went 
Soon  after  and  a  fortnight  spent : 
Drawing,  by  Patty  I  was  taught, 
But  could  not  be  to  music  brought ; 
1  showed  them  how  to  play  ut  chess, 


MART  MAGNO.  299 

I  argued  with  the  governess ; 

I  called  them  stupid ;  why,  to  me 

'Twas  evident  as  A  13  C  ; 

Were  not  the  reasons  such  and  such  ? 

Helston,  my  schoolfellow,  but  much 
My  senior,  in  a  yacht  came  o'er, 
His  uncle  with  him,  from  the  shore 
Under  Worms-head  :  to  take  a  sail 
He  pressed  them,  but  could  not  prevail  •, 
Mama  was  timid,  durst  not  go, 
Papa  was  rather  gruff  with  no. 
Helston  no  sooner  was  afloat. 
We  made  a  party  in  a  boat. 
And  rowed  to  SearMew  Island  out. 
And  landed  there  and  roved  about : 
And  I  and  Emily  out  of  reach, 
Strayed  from  the  rest  along  the  beach. 
Turning  to  look  into  a  cave 
She  stood,  when  suddenly  a  wave 
Ran  up ;  I  caught  her  by  the  frock. 
And  pulled  her  out  and  o'er  a  rock, 
So  doing,  stumbled,  rolled,  and  fell. 
She  knelt  downj  I  remember  well, 
Bid  me  where  I  was  hurt  to  tell, 
And  kissed  me  three  times  as  I  lay ; 
But  I  jumped  up  and  limped  away. 
The  next  was  my  departing  day. 

Patty  arranged  it  all  with  me 
To  send  next  year  to  Emily 
A  valentine.     I  wrote  and  sent ; 
For  the  fourteenth  it  duly  went. 
On  the  fourteenth  what  should  there  be 
But  one  from  Emily  to  me ; 
The  postmark  left  it  plain  to  see. 
Mine,  though  they  praised  it  at  the  time, 
Was  but  a  formal  piece  of  rhyme. 
She  sent  me  one  that  she  had  bought; 
'Twas  stupid  of  her,  as  I  thought : 
Why  not  have  written  one  ?     She  wrote, 
However,  soon,  this  little  note. 

*  Dearest  of  boys,  of  course  'twas  you ; 
You  printed,  but  your  hand  I  knew, 
And  verses  too,  how  did  you  learn  ? 


300  CLOUGWS  POEMS.      ■ 

I  can't  send  any  in  return. 

Papa  declares  they  are  not  bad  — 

That's  praise  from  him  —  and  I'm  so  glad 

Because  you  know  no  one  can  be 

I'd  rather  have  to  write  to  me. 

*  Our  governess  is  going  away, 
We're  so  distressed  she  cannot  stay: 
Mama  had  made  it  quite  a  rule 
We  none  of  us  should  go  to  school. 
But  what  to  do  they  do  not  know, 
Papa  protests  it  must  be  so. 
Lydia  and  I  may  have  to  go  ; 
Patty  will  try  to  teach  the  rest, 
Mama  agrees  it  will  be  best. 
Dear  boy,  good-by,  I  am,  you  see, 
Ever  your  dearest  Emily. 
We  want  to  know,  so  write  and  tell, 
If  you'd  a  valentine  as  well.' 

II. 

Five  tardy  years  were  fully  spent 

Ere  next  my  cousins'  way  I  went ; 

With  Christmas  then  I  came  to  see 

My  uncle  in  his  rectory : 

But  they  the  town  had  left;  no  more 

Were  in  the  vicarage  of  yore. 

When  time  his  sixtieth  year  had  brought, 

An  easier  cure  the  vicar  sought : 

A  country  parsonage  was  made 

Sufficient,  amply,  with  the  aid 

Of  mortar  here  and  there,  and  bricks, 

For  him  and  wife  and  children  six. 

Though  neighbours  now,  there  scarce  was  light 

To  see  them  and  return  ere  night. 

Emily  wrote :  how  glad  they  were 
To  hear  of  my  arrival  there  ; 
Mama  had  bid  her  say  that  all 
The  house  was  crowded  for  the  ball 
Till  Tuesday,  but  if  I  would  come. 
She  thought  that  they  could  find  me  room ; 
The  week  with  them  I  then  should  spend, 
But  really  must  the  ball  attend ; 


MARI  MAGNO.  3Ul 

'  Dear  cousin,  you  have  been  away 
For  such  an  age,  pray  don't  delay. 
But  come  and  do  not  lose  a  day.' 

A  schoolboy  still,  but  now,  indeed, 
About  to  college  to  proceed. 
Dancing  was,  let  it  be  confess'd, 
To  me  no  pleasure  at  the  best : 
Of  girls  and  of  their  lovely  looks 
I  thought  not,  busy  with  my  books. 
Still,  though  a  little  ill-content. 
Upon  the  Monday  morn  I  went : 
My  cousins,  each  and  all,  I  found 
Wondrously  grown !     They  kissed  me  round, 
And  so  affectionate  and  good 
They  were,  it  could  not  be  withstood. 
Emily,  I  was  so  surprised. 
At  first  I  hardly  recognised; 
Her  face  so  formed  and  rounded  now, 
Such  knowledge  in  her  eyes  and  brow ; 
For  all  I  read  and  thought  I  knew. 
She  could  divine  me  through  and  through. 
Where  had  she  been,  and  what  had  done, 
I  asked,  such  victory  to  have  Avon  ? 
She  had  not  studied,  had  not  read, 
Seemed  to  have  little  in  her  head, 
Yet  of  herself  the  right  and  true, 
As  of  her  own  experience  knew. 
Straight  from  her  eyes  her  judgments  flew, 
Like  absolute  decrees  they  ran. 
From  mine,  on  such  a  different  plan. 

A  simple  county  country  ball 
It  was  to  be,  not  grand  at  all ; 
And  cousins  four  with  me  would  dance. 
And  keep  me  well  in  countenance. 
And  there  were  people  there  to  be 
Who  knew  of  old  my  family. 
Friends  of  my  friends  —  I  heard  and  knew, 
And  tried ;  but  no,  it  would  not  do. 
Somehow  it  seemed  a  sort  of  thing 
To  which  my  strength  I  could  not  bring; 
The  music  scarcely  touched  my  ears. 
The  figures  fluttered  me  with  fears. 
I  talked;  but  had  not  aught  to  say, 


302  CLOUGH'S   POEMS. 

Danced,  iny  instructions  to  obey ; 
E'en  when  with  beautiful  good-will 
Emilia  through  the  long  quadrille 
Conducted  me,  alas  the  day, 
Ten  times  I  wished  myself  away. 

But  she,  invested  with  a  dower 
Of  conscious,  scarce-exerted  power, 
Emilia,  so,  I  know  not  why, 
They  called  her  now,  not  Emily, 
Amid  the  living,  heaving  throng, 
Sedately,  somewhat^  moved  along, 
Serenely,  somewhat,  in  the  dance 
Mingled,  divining  at  a  glance. 
And  reading  every  countenance ; 
Not  stately  she,  nor  grand  nor  tall. 
Yet  looked  as  if  controlling  all 
The  fluctuations  of  the  ball ; 
Her  subjects  ready  at  her  call. 
All  others,  she  a  queen,  her  throne 
Preparing,  and  her  title  known, 
Though  not  yet  taken  as  her  own. 
0  wonderful !     I  still  can  see, 
And  twice  she  came  and  danced  with  me. 

She  asked  me  of  my  school,  and  what 
Those  prizes  were  that  I  had  got, 
And  what  we  learnt,  and  '  oh,'  she  said, 
*  How  much  to  carry  in  one's  head,' 
And  I  must  be  upon  my  guard. 
And  really  must  not  work  too  hard : 
Who  were  my  friends  ?  and  did  I  go 
Ever  to  balls  ?     I  told  her  no : 
She  said,  *  I  really  like  them  so ; 
But  then  I  am  a  girl ;  and  dear, 
You  like  your  friends  at  school,  I  fear 
Better  than  anybody  here.' 
How  long  had  she  left  school,  I  asked. 
Two  years,  she  told  me,  and  I  tasked 
My  faltering  speech  to  learn  about 
Her  life,  but  could  not  bring  it  out : 
This  while  the  dancers  round  us  flew. 

Helston,  whom  formerly  I  knew. 
My  schoolfellow,  was  at  the  ball, 
A  man  f ull-statured,  fair  and  tall. 


MART  MAG  NO.  303 

Helston  of  Helston  now  they  said, 
Heir  to  his  uncle,  who  was  dead ; 
In  the  army,  too :  he  danced  with  three 
Of  the  four  sisters.     Emily 
Refused  him  once,  to  dance  with  me. 

How  long  it  seemed  !  and  yet  at  one 
We  left,  before  'twas  nearly  done  : 
How  thankful  I !  the  journey  through 
I  talked  to  them  with  spirits  new ; 
And  the  brief  sleep  of  closing  night 
Brought  a  sensation  of  delight, 
Which,  when  I  woke,  was  exquisite. 
The  music  moving  in  my  brain 
I  felt ;  in  the  gay  crowd  again 
Half  felt,  half  saw  the  girlish  bands. 
On  their  white  skirts  their  white-gloved  hands, 
Advance,  retreat,  and  yet  advance. 
And  mingle  in  the  mingling  dance. 
The  impulse  had  arrived  at  last. 
When  the  opportunity  was  past. 

Breakfast  my  soft  sensations  first 
With  livelier  passages  dispersed. 

Reposing  in  his  country  home, 
Which  half  luxurious  had  become. 
Gay  was  their  father,  loudly  flung 
His  guests  and  blushing  girls  among. 
His  jokes ;  and  she,  their  mother,  too. 
Less  anxious  seemed,  with  less  to  do. 
Her  daughters  aiding.     As  the  day 
Advanced,  the  others  went  away. 
But  I  must  absolutely  stay. 
The  girls  cried  out ;  I  stayed  and  let 
Myself  be  once  more  half  their  pet. 
Although  a  little  on  the  fret. 

How  ill  our  boyhood  understands 
Incipient  manhood's  strong  demands ! 
Boys  have  such  troubles  of  their  own. 
As  none,  they  fancy,  e'er  have  known. 
Such  as  to  speak  of,  or  to  tell. 
They  hold,  were  unendurable :  ' 

Religious,  social,  of  all  kinds, 
That  tear  and  agitate  their  minds. 
A  thousand  thoughts  within  me  stirred. 


304  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Of  which  I  could  not  speak  a  word ; 
Strange  efforts  after  something  new, 
Which  I  was  wretched  not  to  do ; 
Passions,  ambitions  lay  and  lurked, 
Wants,  counter-wants,  obscurely  worked 
Without  their  names,  and  unexplained. 
An^  where  had  Emily  obtained 
Assurance,  and  had  ascertained  ? 
How  strange,  how  far  behind  was  I, 
And  how  it  came,  I  asked,  and  why  ? 
How  was  it,  and  how  could  it  be. 
And  what  was  all  that  worked  in  me  ? 

They  used  to  scold  me  when  I  read. 
And  bade  me  talk  to  them  instead ; 
When  I  absconded  to  my  room. 
To  fetch  me  out  they  used  to  come ; 
Oft  by  myself  I  went  to  walk, 
But,  by  degrees,  was  got  to  talk. 

The  year  had  cheerfully  begun, 
With  more  than  winter's  wonted  sun, 
Mountains,  in  the  green  garden  ways, 
Gleamed  through  the  laurel  and  the  bays. 
I  well  remember  letting  out 
One  day,  as  there  I  looked  about. 
While  they  of  girls  discoursing  sat, 
This  one  how  sweet,  how  lovely  that, 
That  I  could  greater  pleasure  take 
In  looking  on  Llynidwil  lake 
Than  on  the  fairest  female  face : 
They  could  not  understand :  a  place ! 
Incomprehensible  it  seemed ; 
Philippa  looked  as  if  she  dreamed, 
Patty  and  Lydia  loud  exclaimed. 
And  I  already  was  ashamed, 
When  Emily  asked,  half  apart, 
If  to  the  lake  I'd  given  my  heart ; 
And  did  the  lake,  she  wished  to  learn, 
My  tender  sentiment  return. 
For  music,  too,  I  would  not  care, 
Which  was  an  infinite  despair : 
When  Lydia  took  her  seat  to  play, 
I  read  a  book,  or  walked  away. 

I  was  not  quite  composed,  I  own, 


MART  MAGNO.  305 

Except  when  with  the  girls  alone  ; 

Looked  to  their  father  still  with  fear 

Of  how  to  him  I  must  appear ; 

And  was  entirely  put  to  shame, 

When  once  some  rough  he-cousins  came. 

Yet  Emily  from  all  distress 

Could  reinstate  me,  more  or  less ; 

How  pleasant  by  her  side  to  walk, 

How  beautiful  to  let  her  talk, 

How  charming ;  yet,  by  slow  degrees, 

I  got  impatient,  ill  at  ease ; 

Half  glad,  half  wretched,  when  at  last 

The  visit  ended,  and  'twas  past. 

III. 

Next  year  I  went  and  spent  a  week, 
And  certainly  had  learnt  to  speak ; 
My  chains  I  forcibly  had  broke, 
And  now  too  much  indeed  I  spoke. 

A  mother  sick  and  seldom  seen 
A  grief  for  many  months  had  been, 
Their  father  too  was  feebler,  years 
Were  heavy,  and  there  had  been  fears 
Some  months  ago ;  and  he  was  vexed 
With  party  heats  and  all  perplexed 
With  an  upheaving  modern  change 
To  him  and  his  old  wisdom  strange. 
The  daughters  all  were  there,  not  one 
Had  yet  to  other  duties  run. 
Their  father,  people  used  to  say. 
Frightened  the  wooers  all  away ;  — 
As  vines  around  an  ancient  stem. 
They  clung  and  clustered  upon  him. 
Him  loved  and  tended ;  above  all, 
Emilia,  ever  at  his  call. 
But  I  was  —  intellectual ; 

I  talked  in  high  superior  tone 
Of  things  the  girls  had  never  known. 
Far  wiser  to  have  let  alone ; 
Things  which  the  father  knew  in  short 
By  country  clerical  report ; 
I  talked  of  much  I  thought  I  knew, 


306  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Used  all  my  college  wit  anew, 
A  little  on  my  fancy  drew ; 
Religion,  politics,  O  me ! 
No  subject  great  enough  could  be. 
In  vain,  more  weak  in  spirit  grown, 
At  times  lie  tried  to  put  me  down. 
I  own  it  was  the  want,  in  part, 
Of  any  discipline  of  heart. 
It  was,  now  hard  at  work  again. 
The  busy  argufying  brain 
Of  the  prize  schoolboy ;  but,  indeed, 
Much  more,  if  right  the  thing  I  read, 
It  was  the  instinctive  wish  to  try 
And,  above  all  things,  not  be  shy. 
Alas !  it  did  not  do  at  all ; 
111  went  the  visit,  ill  the  ball ; 
Each  hour  I  felt  myself  grow  worse. 
With  every  effort  more  perverse. 
I  tried  to  change ;  too  hard,  indeed, 
I  tried,  and  never  could  succeed. 
Out  of  sheer  spite  an  extra  day 
I  stayed ;  but  when  I  went  away, 
Alas,  the  farewells  were  not  warm, 
The  kissing  was  the  merest  form ; 
Emilia  was  distraite  and  sad. 
And  everything  was  bad  as  bad. 

0  had  some  happy  chance  fall'n  out, 

To  turn  the  thing  just  round  about, 

In  time  at  least  to  give  anew 

The  old  affectionate  adieu ! 

A  little  thing,  a  word,  a  jest, 

A  laugh,  had  set  us  all  at  rest ; 

But  nothing  came.     I  went  away. 

And  could  have  really  cried  that  day, 

So  vexed,  for  I  had  meant  so  Avell, 

Yet  everything  so  ill  befell. 

And  why  and  how  I  could  not  tell. 

Our  wounds  in  youth  soon  close  and  heal, 
Or  seem  to  close  ;  young  peoi)le  feel, 
And  suffer  greatly,  I  believe, 
But  then  they  can't  profess  to  grieve : 


MARI  MAGNO.  307 

Their  pleasures  occupy  them  more, 

And  they  have  so  much  time  before. 

At  twenty  life  appeared  to  me 

A  sort  of  vague  infinity ; 

And  though  of  changes  still  I  heard, 

Keal  changes  had  not  yet  occurred : 

And  all  things  were,  or  would  be,  well, 

And  nothing  irremediable. 

The  youth  for  his  degree  that  reads 

Beyond  it  nothing  knows  or  needs 

Nor  till  'tis  over  wakes  to  see 

The  busy  world's  reality. 

One  visit  brief  I  made  again 
In  autumn  next  but  one,  and  then 
All  better  found.     With  Mary  Gwen 
I  talked,  a  schoolgirl  just  about 
To  leave  this  winter  and  come  out, 
Patty  and  Lydia  were  away, 
And  a  strange  sort  of  distance  lay 
Betwixt  me  and  Emilia. 
She  sought  me  less,  and  I  was  shy. 
And  yet  this  time  I  think  that  I 
More  subtly  felt,  more  saw,  more  knew 
The  beauty  into  which  she  grew ; 
More  understood  the  meanings  now 
Of  the  still  eyes  and  rounded  brow, 
And  could,  perhaps,  have  told  you  how 
The  intellect  that  crowns  our  race 
To  more  than  beauty  in  her  face 
Was  changed.     But  I  confuse  from  hence 
The  later  and  the  earlier  sense. 


IV. 

Have  you  the  Giesbach  seen  ?  a  fall 
In  Switzerland  you  say,  that's  all ; 
That,  and  an  inn,  from  which  proceeds 
A  path  that  to  the  Faulhorn  leads, 
From  whence  you  see  the  world  of  snows. 
Few  see  how  perfect  in  repose. 
White  green,  the  lake  lies  deeply  set, 
Where,  slowly  purifying  yet. 


308  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

The  icy  river-floods  retain 
A  something  of  the  glacier  stain. 
Steep  cliffs  arise  the  waters  o'er, 
The  Giesbach  leads  you  to  a  shore, 
And  to  one  still  sequestered  bay 
I  found  elsewhere  a  scrambling  way. 
Above,  the  loftier  heights  ascend, 
And  level  platforms  here  extend 
The  mountains  and  the  cliffs  between, 
With  firs  and  grassy  spaces  green. 
And  little  dips  and  knolls  to  show 
In  part  or  whole  the  lake  below ; 
And  all  exactly  at  the  height 
To  make  the  pictures  exquisite. 
Most  exquisite  they  seemed  to  me, 
When,  a  year  after  my  degree, 
Passing  upon  my  journey  home 
From  Greece,  and  Sicily,  and  Kome, 
I  stayed  at  that  minute  hotel 
Six  days,  or  eight,  I  cannot  tell. 
Twelve  months  had  led  me  fairly  through 
The  old  world  surviving  in  the  new. 
From  Eome  with  joy  I  passed  to  Greece, 
To  Athens  and  the  Peloponnese ; 
Saluted  with  supreme  delight 
The  Parthenon-surmounted  height ; 
In  huts  at  Delphi  made  abode, 
And  in  Arcadian  valleys  rode ; 
Counted  the  towns  that  lie  like  slain 
Upon  the  wide  Bceotian  plain  ; 
With  wonder  in  the  spacious  gloom 
Stood  of  the  Mycenaean  tomb ; 
From  the  Acrocorinth  watched  the  day 
Light  the  eastern  and  the  western  bay. 
Constantinople  then  had  seen. 
Where,  by  her  cypresses,  the  queen 
Of  the  East  sees  flow  through  portals  wide 
The  steady  streaming  Scythian  tide  ; 
And  after,  from  Scamander's  mouth, 
Went  up  to  Troy,  and  to  the  South, 
To  Lycia,  Caria,  pressed,  at  whiles 
Outvoyaging  to  Egean  isles. 
To  see  the  things  which,  sick  with  doubt 


MARI  MAGNO.  309 

And  comment,  one  had  learnt  about, 

Was  like  clear  morning  after  night, 

Or  raising  of  the  blind  to  sight. 

Aware  it  might  J^e  first  and  last, 

I  did  it  eagerly  and  fast, 

And  took  unsparingly  my  fill. 

The  impetus  of  travel  still 

Urged  me,  but  laden,  half  oppress'd. 

Here  lighting  on  a  place  of  rest, 

I  yielded,  asked  not  if  'twere  best. 

Pleasant  it  was,  reposing  here, 

To  sum  the  experience  of  the  year, 

And  let  the  accumulated  gain 

Assort  itself  upon  the  brain. 

Travel's  a  miniature  life. 

Travel  is  evermore  a  strife. 

Where  he  must  run  who  would  obtain. 

'Tis  a  perpetual  loss  and  gain ; 

For  sloth  and  error  dear  we  pay. 

By  luck  and  effort  win  our  way. 

And  both  have  need  of  every  day. 

Each  day  has  got  its  sight  to  see. 

Each  day  must  put  to  profit  be  ; 

Pleasant,  Avhen  seen  are  all  the  sights, 

To  let  them  think  themselves  to  rights. 

I  on  the  Giesbach  turf  reclined. 

Half  watched  this  process  in  my  mind; 

Watch  the  stream  purifying  slow, 

In  me  and  in  the  lake  beloAv ; 

And  then  began  to  think  of  home, 

And  possibilities  to  come. 

Brienz,  on  our  Brienzer  See 

Erom  Interlaken  every  day 

A  steamer  seeks,  and  at  our  pier 

Lets  out  B.  crowd  to  see  things  here ; 

Up  a  steep  path  they  pant  and  strive; 

When  to  the  level  they  arrive. 

Dispersing,  hither,  thither,  run, 

For  all  must  rapidly  be  done. 

And  seek,  with  questioning  and  din. 

Some  the  cascade,  and  some  the  inn. 

The  waterfall,  for  if  you  look, 


810  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

You  find  it  printed  in  the  book 
That  man  or  woman,  so  inclined, 
]\Iay  pass  the  very  fall  behind ; 
So  many  feet  there  intervene 
The  rock  and  flying  jet  between; 
The  inn,  'tis  also  in  the  plan 
(For  tourist  is  a  hungry  man), 
And  a  small  salle  repeats  by  rote, 
>   A  daily  task  of  table  cVhote, 
Where  broth  and  meat,  and  country  wine 
Assure  the  strangers  that  they  dine ; 
Do  it  they  must  while  they  have  power, 
For  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
Back  comes  the  steamer  from  Brienz, 
And  with  one  clear  departure  hence 
The  quietude  is  more  intense. 

It  was  my  custom  at  the  top 
To  stand  and  see  them  clambering  up, 
Then  take  advantage  of  the  start. 
And  pass  into  the  woods  apart. 

It  happened,  and  I  know  not  why, 
I  once  returned  too  speedily  ; 
And,  seeing  women  still  and  men, 
Was  swerving  to  the  woods  again, 
But  for  a  moment  stopped  to  seize 
A  glance  at  some  one  near  the  trees ; 
A  figure  full,  but  full  of  grace. 
Its  movement  beautified  the  place. 
It  turns,  advances,  comes  my  way ; 
What  do  I  see,  what  do  I  say  ? 
Yet,  to  a  statelier  beauty  grown, 
It  is,  it  can  be,  she  alone ! 
0  mountains  round !     O  heaven  above ! 
It  is  —  Emilia,  whom  I  love ; 
'  Emilia,  whom  I  love,'  the  word 
Rose  to  my  lips,  as  yet  unheard. 
When  she,  whose  colour  flushed  to  red, 
In  a  soft  voice,  *  My  husband,'  said ; 
And  Helston  came  up  with  his  hand. 
And  both  of  them  took  mine  ;  but  stand 
And  talk  they  could  not,  they  must  go; 
The  steamer  rang  her  bell  below ; 
How  curious  that  I  did  not  know ! 


MART  MAGNO.  311 

They  were  to  go  and  stay  at  Thun, 
Could  I  come  there  and  see  them  soon  ? 
And  shortly  were  returning  home, 
And  when  would  I  to  Helston  come  ? 
Thus  down  we  went,  I  put  them  in ; 
Off  went  the  steamer  with  a  din, 
And  on  the  pier  I  stood  and  eyed 
The  bridegroom,  seated  by  the  bride 
Emilia  closing  to  his  side. 


She  wrote  from  Helston ;  begged  I'd  come 

And  see  her  in  her  husband's  home. 

I  went,  and  bound  by  double  vow, 

Not  only  wife,  but  mother  now, 

I  found  her,  lovely  as  of  old, 

O,  rather,  lovelier  manifold. 

Her  wifely  sweet  reserve  unbroke, 

Still  frankly,  tenderly,  she  spoke  ; 

Asked  me  about  myself,  would  hear 

What  I  proposed  to  do  this  year ; 

At  college  why  was  I  detained. 

Was  it  the  fellowship  I'd  gained  ? 

I  told  her  that  I  was  not  tied 
Henceforward  further  to  reside. 
Yet  very  likely  might  stay  on. 
And  lapse  into  a  college  don ; 
My  fellowship  itself  would  give 
A  competence  on  which  to  live. 
And  if  I  waited,  who  could  tell, 
I  might  be  tutor  too,  as  well. 
O,  but,  she  said,  I  must  not  stay, 
College  and  school  were  only  play ; 
I  might  be  sick,  perhaps,  of  praise, 
But  must  not  therefore  waste  my  days! 
Fellows  grow  indolent,  and  then 
They  may  not  do  as  other  men. 
And  for  your  happiness  in  life, 
Sometime  you'll  wish  to  have  a  wife. 

Languidly  by  her  chair  I  sat, 
But  my  eyes  rather  flashed  at  that. 


312  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

I  said,  'Emilia,  people  change, 
But  yet,  I  own,  I  find  it  strange 
To  hear  this  common  talk  from  you : 
You  speak,  and  some  believe  it  true, 
Just  as  if  any  wife  would  do ; 
Whoe'er  one  takes,  'tis  much  the  same, 
And  love  —  and  so  forth,  but  a  name.' 
She  coloured.     '  What  can  I  have  said 
Or  what  could  put  it  in  your  head  ? 
Indeed,  I  had  not  in  my  mind 
The  faintest  notion  of  the  kind.' 

I  told  her  that  I  did  not  know  — 
Her  tone  appeared  to  mean  it  so. 

*  Emilia,  when  I've  heard,'  I  said, 

'  How  people  match  themselves  and  wed, 
I've  sometimes  wished  that  both  were  dead.' 

She  turned  a  little  pale.     I  woke 
Some  thought ;  what  thought  ?  but  soft  she  spoke 

*  I'm  sure  that  what  you  meant  was  good, 
But,  really,  you  misunderstood. 

From  point  to  point  so  quick  you  fly, 

And  are  so  vehement,  —  and  I, 

As  you  remember,  long  ago, 

Am  stupid,  certainly  am  slow. 

And  yet  some  things  I  seem  to  know ; 

I  know  it  will  be  just  a  crime. 

If  you  should  waste  your  poAvers  and  time. 

There  is  so  much,  T  think,  that  you. 

And  no  one  equally,  can  do.' 

'It  does  not  matter  much,'  said  I. 

*  The  things  I  thought  of  are  gone  by ; 
I'm  quite  content  to  wait  to  die.' 

A  sort  of  beauteous  anger  spread 
Over  her  face.     '  0  me  ! '  she  said, 
'Tliat  you  should  sit  and  trifle  so, 
And  you  so  utterly  don't  know 
How  greatly  you  have  yet  to  grow. 
How  wide  your  objects  have  to  expand, 
How  much  is  yet  an  imknown  laud  ! 
You're  twenty-three,  I'm  twenty-five, 
And  I  am  so  much  more  alive.' 


MART  MAGNO.  313 

My  eyes  I  shaded  with  my  hand, 
And  almost  lost  my  self-command. 
I  muttered  something  :  '  Yes,  I  see ; 
Two  years  have  severed  you  from  me. 
0,  Emily,  was  it  ever  told,' 
I  asked,  '  that  souls  are  young  and  old  ? ' 

But  she,  continuing,  '  All  the  day 
Were  I  to  speak,  I  could  but  say 
The  one  same  thing  the  one  same  way. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  I  think,  you  know,' 
And  her  tone  suddenly  was  low, 
'  That  in  a  day  we  yet  shall  see, 
You  of  my  sisters  and  of  me. 
And  of  the  things  that  used  to  be, 
Will  think,  as  you  look  back  again, 
With  something  not  unlike  disdain ; 
So  you  your  rightful  place  obtain. 
That  will  to  me  be  joy,  not  pain.' 
Her  voice  still  lower,  lower  fell, 
I  heard,  just  heard,  each  syllable. 
'  But,'  in  the  tone  she  used  before, 
'  Don't  stay  at  college  any  more ! 
For  others  it  perhaps  may  do, 
I'm  sure  it  will  be  bad  for  you.' 

She  softened  me.     The  following  day 
We  parted.     As  I  went  away. 
Her  infant  on  her  bosom  lay. 
And,  as  a  mother  might  her  boy, 
I  think  she  would  with  loving  joy 
Have  kissed  me ;  but  I  turned  to  go, 
'Twas  better  not  to  have  it  so. 

Next  year  achieved  me  some  amends, 
And  once  we  met  and  met  as  friends. 
Friends,  yet  apart ;  I  had  not  much 
Valued  her  judgment,  though  to  touch 
Her  words  had  power ;  yet  strangely  still, 
It  had  been  cogent  on  my  will. 
As  she  had  counselled,  I  had  done. 
And  a  new  effort  was  begun. 
Forth  to  the  war  of  life  I  went, 
Courageous,  and  not  ill  content. 


314  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

'  Yours  is  the  fault  I  opened  thus  again 

A  youthful,  ancient,  sentimental  vein,' 

He  said,  '  and  like  Munchausen's  horn  o'erflow 

With  liquefying  tunes  of  long  ago. 

My  wiser  friend,  who  knows  for  what  we  live. 

And  what  shall  seek,  will  his  correction  give.' 

We  all  made  thanks.    '  My  tale  were  quickly  told,' 
The  other  said,  '  but  the  turned  heavens  behold  ; 
The  night  two  watches  of  the  night  is  old. 
The  sinking  stars  their  suasions  urge  for  sleep. 
My  story  for  to-morrow  night  will  keep.' 

The  evening  after,  when  the  day  was  stilled, 
His  promise  thus  the  clergyman  fulfilled. 


THE  CLERGYMAN'S  FIRST  TALE. 

Love  is  fellow-service. 

A  YOUTH  and  maid  upon  a  summer  night 
Upon  the  lawn,  while  yet  the  skies  were  light, 
Edmund  and  Emma,  let  their  names  be  these. 
Among  the  shrubs  within  the  circling  trees, 
Joined  in  a  game  with  boys  and  girls  at  play : 
For  games  perhaps  too  old  a  little  they ; 
In  April  she  her  eighteenth  year  begun, 
And  twenty  he,  and  near  to  twenty-one. 
A  game  it  was  of  running  and  of  noise; 
He  as  a  boy  with  other  girls  and  boys 
(Her  sisters  and  her  brothers),  took  the  fun; 
And  when  her  turn,  she  marked  not,  came  to  run, 
'  Emma,'  he  called,  —  then  knew  that  he  was  wrong. 
Knew  that  her  name  to  him  did  not  belong. 
Her  look  and  manner  proved  his  feeling  true,  — 
A  child  no  more,  her  womanhood  she  knew ; 
Half  was  the  colour  niounted  on  her  face, 
Her  tardy  movement  had  an  adult  grace. 
Vexed  with  himself,  and  shamed,  he  felt  the  more 
A  kind  of  joy  he  ne'er  had  felt  before. 
Something  there  was  that  from  this  date  began ; 
'Twas  beautiful  with  her  to  be  a  man. 


MARI  MAGNO.  315 

Two  years  elapsed,  and  he  who  went  and  came, 
Changing  in  much,  in  this  appeared  the  same ; 
The  feeling  if  it  did  not  greatly  grow, 
Endured  and  was  not  wholly  hid  below. 

He  now,  o'ertasked  at  school,  a  serious  boy, 
A  sort  of  after-boyhood  to  enjoy 
Appeared  —  in  vigour  and  in  spirit  high 
And  manly  grown,  but  kept  the  boy's  soft  eye : 
And  full  of  blood,  and  strong  and  lithe  of  limb. 
To  him  'twas  pleasure  now  to  ride,  to  swim ; 
The  peaks,  the  glens,  the  torrents  tempted  him. 
Eestless  he  seemed,  —  long  distances  would  walk, 
And  lively  was,  and  vehement  in  talk. 
A  wandering  life  his  life  had  lately  been, 
Books  he  had  read,  the  world  had  little  seen. 
One  former  frailty  haunted  him,  a  touch 
Of  something  introspective  overmuch. 
With  all  his  eager  motions  still  there  went 
A  self-correcting  and  ascetic  bent, 
That  from  the  obvious  good  still  led  astray. 
And  set  him  travelling  on  the  longest  way ; 
Seen  in  these  scattered  notes  their  date  that  claim 
When  first  his  feeling  conscious  sought  a  name. 

'Beside  the  wishing  gate  which  so  they  name, 
'Mid  northern  hills  to  me  this  fancy  came, 
A  wish  I  formed,  my  wish  I  thus  expressed : 
Would  I  could  wish  my  wishes  all  to  rest, 
And  know  to  wish  the  wish  that  icere  the  best ! 
O  for  some  winnowing  wind,  to  the  empty  air 
This  chaff  of  easy  sympathies  to  bear 
Far  off,  and  leave  me  of  myself  aware  ! 
While  thus  this  over  health  deludes  me  still. 
So  willing  that  I  know  not  what  I  will ; 
0  for  some  friend,  or  more  than  friend,  austere, 
To  make  me  know  myself,  and  make  me  fear ! 
0  for  some  touch,  too  noble  to  be  kind, 
To  awake  to  life  the  mind  within  the  mind ! ' 

'0  charms,  seductions  and  divine  delights  ! 
All  through  the  radiant  yellow  summer  nights. 
Dreams,  hardly  dreams,  that  yield  or  e'er  they're  done, 
To  the  bright  fact,  my  day,  my  risen  sun ! 
0  promise  and  fulfilment,  both  in  one  ! 
0  bliss,  already  bliss,  which  nought  has  shared, 


316  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Whose  glory  no  fruition  has  impaired, 
And,  emblem  of  my  state,  thou  coming  day, 
With  all  thy  hours  unspent  to  pass  away ! 
Why  do  I  wait  ?     What  more  propose  to  know  ? 
Where  the  sweet  mandate  bids  me,  let  me  go ; 
My  conscience  in  my  impulse  let  me  find, 
Justification  in  the  moving  mind, 
Law  in  the  strong  desire ;  or  yet  behind. 
Say,  is  there  aught  the  spell  that  has  not  heard, 
A  something  that  refuses  to  be  stirred  ? ' 
'  In  other  regions  has  my  being  heard 
Of  a  strange  language  the  diviner  word  ? 
Has  some  forgotten  life  the  exemplar  shown  ? 
Elsewhere  such  high  communion  have  I  known. 
As  dooms  me  here,  in  this,  to  live  alone  ? 
Then  love,  that  shouldest  blind  me,  let  me,  love, 
Nothing  behold  beyond  thee  or  above ; 
Ye  impulses,  that  should  be  strong  and  wild. 
Beguile  me,  if  I  am  to  be  beguiled ! ' 

*  Or  are  there  modes  of  love,  and  different  kinds. 
Proportioned  to  the  sizes  of  our  minds  ? 

There  are  who  say  thus,  I  held  there  was  one. 

One  love,  one  deity,  one  central  sun ; 

As  he  resistless  brings  the  expanding  day. 

So  love  should  come  on  his  victorious  way. 

If  light  at  all,  can  light  indeed  be  there. 

Yet  only  permeate  half  the  ambient  air  ? 

Can  the  high  noon  be  regnant  in  the  sky. 

Yet  half  the  land  in  light,  and  half  in  darkness  lie  ? 

Can  love,  if  love,  be  occupant  in  part. 

Hold,  as  it  were,  some  chambers  in  the  heart; 

Tenant  at  will  of  so  much  of  the  soul, 

Not  lord  and  mighty  master  of  the  whole  ? 

There  are  who  say,  and  say  that  it  is  well ; 

Opinion  all,  of  knowledge  none  can  tell.' 

*  Montaigne,  I  know  in  a  realm  high  above 
Places  the  seat  of  friendship  over  love ; 
'Tis  not  in  love  that  we  should  think  to  find 
The  lofty  fellowship  of  mind  with  mind; 
Love's  not  a  joy  where  soul  and  soul  unite, 
Rather  a  wondrous  animal  delight ; 

And  as  in  spring,  for  one  consummate  hour 
The  world  of  vegetation  turns  to  flower. 


MART  MAGNO.  317 

The  birds  with  liveliest  plumage  trim  their  wing, 
And  all  the  woodland  listens  as  they  sing ; 
When  spring  is  o'er  and  summer  days  are  sped, 
The  songs  are  silent,  and  the  blossoms  dead : 
E'en  so  of  man  and  woman  is  the  bliss. 
0,  but  I  will  not  tamely  yield  to  this ! 
I  think  it  only  shows  us  in  the  end, 
Montaigne  was  happy  in  a  noble  friend, 
Had  not  the  fortune  of  a  noble  wife ; 
He  lived,  I  think,  a  poor  ignoble  life. 
And  wrote  of  petty  pleasures,  petty  pain ; 
I  do  not  greatly  think  about  Montaigne.' 

'  How  charming  to  be  with  her !  yet  indeed. 
After  a  while  I  find  a  blank  succeed ; 
After  a  while  she  little  has  to  say, 
I'm  silent  too,  although  I  wish  to  stay ; 
What  would  it  be  all  day,  day  after  day  ? 
Ah !  but  I  ask,  I  do  not  doubt,  too  much ; 
I  think  of  love  as  if  it  should  be  such 
As  to  fulfil  and  occupy  in  whole 
The  nought-else-seeking,  nought-essaying  soul. 
Therefore  it  is  my  mind  with  doubts  I  urge ; 
Hence  are  these  fears  and  shiverings  on  the  verge ; 
By  books,  not  nature,  thus  have  we  been  schooled. 
By  poetry  and  novels  been  befooled ; 
Wiser  tradition  says,  the  affections'  claim 
Will  be  supplied,  the  rest  will  be  the  same. 
I  think  too  much  of  love,  'tis  true  :  I  know 
It  is  not  all,  was  ne'er  intended  so ; 
Yet  such  a  change,  so  entire,  I  feel,  'twould  be. 
So  potent,  so  omnipotent  with  me ; 
My  former  self  I  never  shovdd  recall,  — 
Indeed  I  think  it  must  be  all  in  all.' 

*  I  thought  that  Love  was  winged ;  without  a  sound, 
His  purple  pinions  bore  him  o'er  the  ground. 
Wafted  without  an  effort  here  or  there,  . 
He  came — and  we  too  trod  as  if  in  air :  — 
But  panting,  toiling,  clambering  up  the  hill. 
Am  I  to  assist  him  ?  I,  put  forth  my  will 
To  upbear  his  lagging  footsteps,  lame  and  slow. 
And  help  him  on  and  tell  him  where  to  go, 
And  ease  him  of  his  quiver  and  his  bow  ? ' 

'  Erotion !  I  saw  it  in  a  book ; 


318  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Why  did  I  notice  it,  wliy  did  I  look  ? 
Yea,  is  it  so,  ye  powers  that  see  above  ? 
I  do  not  love,  I  want,  I  try  to  love ! 
This  is  not  love,  but  lack  of  love  instead ! 
Merciless  thought !  I  would  I  had  been  dead, 
Or  e'er  the  phrase  had  come  into  my  head.' 

She  also  wrote :  and  here  may  find  a  place, 
Of  her  and  of  her  thoughts  some  slender  trace. 

*  He  is  not  vain ;  if  proud,  he  quells  his  pride, 
And  somehow  really  likes  to  be  defied ; 
Kejoices  if  you  humble  him :  indeed 

Gives  way  at  once,  and  leaves  you  to  succeed.' 

'  Easy  it  were  with  such  a  mind  to  play, 
And  foolish  not  to  do  so,  some  would  say ; 
One  almost  smiles  to  look  and  see  the  way : 
But  come  what  will,  I  will  not  play  a  part, 
Indeed  I  dare  not  condescend  to  art.' 

*  Easy  'twere  not,  perhaps,  with  him  to  live ; 
He  looks  for  more  than  any  one  can  give : 

So  dulled  at  times  and  disappointed  ;  still 
Expecting  what  depends  not  of  my  will : 
My  inspiration  comes  not  at  my  call, 
Seek  me  as  I  am,  if  seek  you  do  at  all.' 

'  Like  him  I  do,  and  think  of  him  I  must ; 
But  more  —  I  dare  not  and  I  cannot  trust. 
This  more  he  brings  —  say,  is  it  more  or  less 
Than  that  no  fruitage  ever  came  to  bless,  — 
The  old  wild  flower  of  love-in-idleness  ?  ' 

*  Me  when  he  leaves  and  others  when  he  sees, 
What  is  my  fate  who  am  not  there  to  please  ? 
Me  he  has  left ;  already  may  have  seen 

One  who  for  me  forgotten  here  has  been ; 
And  he,  the  while  is  balancing  between. 
If  the  heart  spoke,  the  heart  I  knew  were  bound 
What  if  it  utter  an  uncertain  sound  ?  ' 

'  So  quick  to  vary,  so  rejoiced  to  change, 
From  this  to  that  his  feelings  surely  range ; 
His  fancies  wander,  and  his  thoughts  as  well ; 
And  if  the  heart  be  constant,  who  can  tell  ? 
Far  off  to  fly,  to  abandon  me,  and  go, 
He  seems  returning  then  before  I  know : 
With  every  accident  he  seems  to  move, 
Is  now  below  me  and  is  now  above, 


MABI  MAGNO.  319 

Now  far  aside,  —  0,  does  he  really  love  ? ' 

'  Absence  were  hard ;  yet  let  the  trial  be ; 
His  nature's  aim  and  purpose  he  Avould  free, 
And  in  the  world  his  course  of  action  see. 
O  should  he  lose,  not  learn  ;  pervert  his  scope ; 

0  should  I  lose !   and  yet  to  win  I  hope. 

1  win  not  now ;  his  way  if  now  I  went, 
Brief  joy  I  gave,  for  years  of  discontent.' 

'  Gone,  is  it  true  ?  but  oft  he  went  before, 
And  came  again  before  a  month  was  o'er. 
Gone  —  though  I  could  not  venture  upon  art, 
It  was  perhaps  a  foolish  pride  in  part; 
He  had  such  ready  fancies  in  his  head. 
And  really  was  so  easy  to  be  led ; 
One  might  have  failed ;  and  yet  I  feel  'twas  pride, 
And  can't  but  half  repent  I  never  tried. 
Gone,  is  it  true  ?  but  he  again  will  come, 
Wandering  he  loves,  and  loves  returning  home.' 

Gone,  it  was  true  ;  nor  came  so  soon  again ; 
Came,  after  travelling,  pleasure  half,  half  pain. 
Came,  but  a  half  of  Eiirope  first  o'erran ; 
Arrived,  his  father  found  a  ruined  man. 
Rich  they  had  been,  and  rich  was  Emma  too. 
Heiress  of  wealth  she  knew  not,  Edmund  knew. 

Farewell  to  her  !  —  In  a  new  home  obscure, 
Food  for  his  helpless  parents  to  secure. 
From  early  morning  to  advancing  dark. 
He  toiled  and  laboured  as  a  merchant's  clerk. 
Three  years  his  heavy  load  he  bore,  nor  quailed. 
Then  all  his  liealth,  though  scarce  his  spirit,  failed ; 
Friends  interposed,  insisted  it  must  be, 
Enforced  their  help,  and  sent  him  to  the  sea. 

Wandering  about  with  little  here  to  do. 
His  old  thoughts  mingling  dimly  with  his  new, 
Wandering  one  morn,  he  met  upon  the  shore. 
Her  whom  he  quitted  five  long  years  before. 

Alas !  why  quitted  ?     Say  that  charms  are  nought, 
Nor  grace,  nor  beauty,  worth  one  serious  thought ; 
Was  there  no  mystic  virtue  in  the  sense 
That  joined  your  boyish  girlish  innocence  ? 
Is  constancy  a  thing  to  throw  away. 
And  loving  faithfulness  a  chance  of  every  day  ? 
Alas  !  why  quitted  ?  is  she  changed  ?  but  now 


320  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

The  weight  of  intellect  is  in  her  brow  ; 
Changed,  or  but  truer  seen,  one  sees  in  her 
Something  to  wake  the  soul,  the  interior  sense  to  stir. 

Alone  they  met,  from  alien  eyes  away, 
The  high  shore  hid  them  in  a  tiny  bay. 
Alone  was  he,  was  she ;  in  sweet  surprise 
They  met,  before  they  knew  it,  in  their  eyes. 
In  his  a  wondering  admiration  glowed. 
In  hers,  a  world  of  tenderness  o'erflowed  ; 
In  a  brief  moment  all  was  known  and  seen. 
That  of  slow  years  the  wearying  work  had  been : 
Morn's  early  odorous  breath  perchance  in  sooth, 
Awoke  the  old  natural  feeling  of  their  youth : 
The  sea,  perchance,  and  solitude  had  charms. 
They  met  —  I  know  not  —  in  each  other's  arms.      ., 

Why  linger  now  —  why  waste  the  sands  of  life  ? 
A  few  sweet  weeks,  and  they  were  man  and  wife. 

To  his  old  frailty  do  not  be  severe. 
His  latest  theory  with  patience  hear : 

'  I  sought  not,  truly  would  to  seek  disdain, 
A  kind,  soft  pillow  for  a  wearying  pain, 
Fatigues  and  cares  to  lighten,  to  relieve ; 
But  love  is  fellow-service,  I  believe.' 

'  No,  truly  no,  it  was  not  to  obtain. 
Though  that  alone  were  happiness,  were  gain, 
A  tender  breast  to  fall  upon  and  weep, 
A  heart,  the  secrets  of  my  heart  to  keep  ; 
To  share  my  hopes,  and  in  my  griefs  to  grieve ; 
Yet  love  is  fellow-service,  I  believe.' 

'  Yet  in  the  eye  of  life's  all-seeing  sun 
We  shall  behold  a  something  we  have  done, 
Shall  of  the  work  together  we  have  wrought. 
Beyond  our  aspiration  and  our  thought, 
Some  not  unworthy  issue  yet  receive  ; 
For  love  is  fellow-service,  I  believe.' 


The  tale,  we  said,  instructive  was,  but  short; 
Could  he  not  give  another  of  the  sort  ? 
He  feared  his  second  might  his  first  repeat, 
'  And  Aristotle  teaches,  change  is  sweet ; 
But  come,  our  younger  friend  in  this  dim  night 


MAR!  MAGNO.  321 

Under  his  bushel  must  not  hide  his  light.' 
I  said  I'd  had  but  little  time  to  live, 
Experience  none  or  confidence  could  give. 
*  But  I  can  tell  to-morrow,  if  you  please. 
My  last  year's  journey  towards  the  Pyrenees.' 
To-morrow  came,  and  evening,  when  it  closed, 
The  penalty  of  speech  on  me  imposed. 


MY  TALE. 

A  la  Banquette,  or  a  Modern  Pilgrimage. 

I  STAYED  at  La  Quenille,  ten  miles  or  more 
From  the  old-Roman  sources  of  Mont  Dore ; 
Travellers  to  Tulle  this  way  are  forced  to  go, 
—  An  old  high-road  from  Lyons  to  Bordeaux, — 
From  Tulle  to  Brives  the  swift  Correze  descends, 
At  Brives  you've  railway,  and  your  trouble  ends ; 
A  little  hourg  La  Quenille ;  from  the  height 
The  mountains  of  Auvergne  are  all  in  sight ; 
Green  pastoral  heights  that  once  in  lava  flowed, 
Of  primal  fire  the  product  and  abode ; 
And  all  the  plateaux  and  the  lines  that  trace 
Where  in  deep  dells  the  waters  find  their  place ; 
Far  to  the  south  above  the  lofty  plain. 
The  Plomb  du  Cantal  lifts  his  towering  train. 

A  little  after  one,  with  little  fail, 
Down  drove  the  diligence  that  bears  the  mail ; 
The  courier  therefore  called,  in  whose  banquette 
A  place  I  got,  and  thankful  was  to  get ; 
The  new  postillion  climbed  his  seat,  allez, 
Off  broke  the  four  cart-horses  on  their  way. 
Westward  we  roll,  o'er  heathy  backs  of  hills, 
Crossing  the  future  rivers  in  the  rills ; 
Bare  table-lauds  are  these,  and  sparsely  sown, 
Turning  their  waters  south  to  the  Dordogne. 

Close-packed  we  were,  and  little  at  our  ease, 
The  conducteur  impatient  with  the  squeeze^ 
Not  tall  he  seemed,  but  bulky  round  about. 
His  cap  and  jacket  made  him  look  more  stout ; 
Jn  graude  tenue  he  rode  of  conducteur ; 


322  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Black  eyes  he  had,  black  his  moustaches  were, 
Shaven  his  chin,  his  hair  and  whiskers  cropt; 
A  ready  man ;  at  Ussel  when  we  stopt, 
Por  me  and  for  himself,  bread,  meat,  and  wine, 
He  got,  the  courier  did  not  wait  to  dine ; 
To  appease  our  hunger,  and  allay  our  drouth. 
We  ate  and  took  the  bottle  at  tlie  mouth ; 
One  draught  I  had,  the  rest  entire  had  he. 
For  wine  his  body  had  capacity. 

A  peasant  in  his  country  blouse  was  there, 
He  told  me  of  the  conseil  and  the  maire. 
Their  maire,  he  said,  could  neither  write  nor  read, 
And  yet  could  keep  the  registers,  indeed ; 
The  conseil  had  resigned  —  I  know  not  what.  — 
Good  actions  here  are  easily  forgot : 
He  in  the  quarante-huit  had  something  done. 
Were  things  but  fair,  some  notice  should  have  won. 

Another  youth  there  was,  a  soldier  he, 
A  soldier  ceasing  with  to-day  to  be ; 
Three  years  had  served,  for  three  had  bought  release : 
From  war  returning  to  the  arts  of  peace, 
.  To  Tulle  he  went,  as  his  department's  town. 
To-morrow  morn  to  pay  his  money  down. 

In  Italy,  his  second  year  begun. 
This  youth  had  served,  when  Italy  was  won. 
He  told  of  Montebello,  and  the  fight, 
That  ended  fiercely  with  the  close  of  night. 
There  was  he  wounded,  fell,  and  thought  to  die. 
Two  Austrian  cones  had  passed  into  liis  thigh ; 
One  traversed  it,  the  other,  left  behind, 
In  hospital  the  doctor  had  to  find  : 
At  eight  of  night  he  fell,  and  sadly  lay 
Till  three  of  morning  of  the  following  day, 
When  peasants  came  and  put  him  on  a  wain. 
And  drove  him  to  Voghera  in  his  pain ; 
To  Alessandria  thence  the  railway  bore. 
In  Alessandria  then  two  months  and  more 
He  lay  in  hospital ;  to  lop  the  limb 
The  Italian  doctor  who  attended  him 
Was  much  disposed,  but  high  above  the  knee; 
For  life  an  utter  cripple  he  would  be. 
Then  came  the  typhoid  fever,  and  the  lack 
Of  food.     And  sick  and  hungering,  on  his  back. 


MARI  MAGNO.  323 

With  French,  Italians,  Austrians  as  he  lay, 

Arrived  the  tidings  of  Magenta's  day, 

And  Milan  entered  in  the  burning  June, 

And  Solferino's  issue  following  soon. 

Alas,  the  glorious  wars !  and  shortly  he 

To  Genoa  for  the  advantage  of  the  sea. 

And  to  Savona,  suffering  still,  was  sent 

And  joined  his  now  returning  regiment. 

Good  were  the  Austrian  soldiers,  but  the  feel 

They  did  not  well  encounter  of  cold  steel, 

Nor  in  the  bayonet  fence  of  man  with  man 

Maintained  their  ground,  but  yielded,  turned  and  ran. 

Les  armes  blanches  and  the  rifled  gun 

Had  fought  the  battles,  and  the  victories  Avon. 

The  glorious  wars  !  but  he,  the  doubtful  chance 

Of  soldiers'  glory  quitting  and  advance,  — 

His  wounded  limb  less  injured  than  he  feared, — 

Was  dealing  now  in  timber,  it  appeared ; 

Oak-timber  finding  for  some  mines  of  lead. 

Worked  by  an  English  company,  he  said. 

This  youth  perhaps  was  twenty -three  years  old ; 

Simply  and  well  his  history  he  told. 

They  wished  to  hear  about  myself  as  well ; 
I  told  them,  but  it  was  not  much  to  tell ; 
At  the  Mont  Dore,  of  which  the  guide-book  talks, 
I'd  taken,  not  the  waters,  but  the  walks. 
Friends  I  had  met,  who  on  their  southward  way 
Had  gone  before,  I  followed  them  to-day. 

They  wondered  greatly  at  this  wondrous  thing,  — 
Les  Anglais  are  forever  on  the  wing,  — 
The  conducteur  said  everybody  knew 
We  were  descended  of  the  Wandering  Jew. 
•And  on  with  the  declining  sun  we  rolled. 
And  woods  and  vales  and  fuller  streams  behold. 

About  the  hour  when  peasant  people  sup, 
We  dropped  the  peasant,  took  a  cure  up, 
In  hat  and  bands  and  soutane  all  to  fit. 
He  next  the  conducteur  was  put  to  sit; 
I  in  the  corner  gained  the  senior  place. 
Brown  was  his  hair,  but  closely  shaved  his  face ; 
To  lift  his  eyelids  did  he  think  it  sin  ? 
I  saw  a  pair  of  soft  brown  eyes  within. 
Older  he  was,  but  looked  like  twenty -two, 


324  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Fresh  from  the  cases,  to  the  country  new. 

I,  the  conducteur  watching  from  my  side, 
A  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye  espied ; 
He  begged  to  hear  about  the  pretty  pair 
Whom  he  supposed  he  had  been  marrying  there ; 
The  deed,  he  hoped,  was  comfortably  done,  — 
Monsieur  I'Ev^que  he  called  him  in  his  fun. 
Then  lifted  soon  his  voice  for  all  to  hear ; 
A  baritone  he  had  both  strong  and  clear : 
In  fragments  first  of  music  made  essay. 
And  tried  his  pipes  and  modest  felt  his  way. 
Le  verre  en  main  la  mort  nous  trouvera, 
It  was,  or  Ah,  vous  dirai-je,  maman  ! 
And  then,  A  toi,  ma  belle,  d,  toi  toujours; 
Till  of  his  organ's  quality  secure. 
Trifling  no  more,  but  boldly,  like  a  man, 
He  filled  his  chest  and  gallantly  began, 

'Though  I  have  seemed,  against  my  wiser  will, 
Your  victim,  0  ye  tender  foibles,  still. 
Once  now  for  all,  though  half  my  heart  be  yours, 
Adieu,  sweet  faults,  adieu,  ye  gay  amours ! 
.    Sad  if  it  be,  yet  true  it  is  to  say, 

I've  fifty  years,  and  'tis  too  late  a  day. 

My  limbs  are  shrinking  and  my  hair  turns  grey ; 

Adieu,  gay  loves,  it  is  too  late  a  day  ! 

'  Once  in  your  school  (what  good,  alas !  is  once  ?) 
I  took  my  lessons,  and  was  not  the  dunce. 
Oh,  what  a  pretty  girl  was  then  Juliette  ! 
Don't  you  suppose  that  I  remember  yet. 
Though  thirty  years  divide  me  from  the  day. 
When  she  and  I  first  looked  each  other's  way  ? 
But  now !  midwinter  to  be  matched  with  May  ! 
Adieu,  gay  loves,  it  is  too  late  a  day  ! 

'  You  lovely  Marguerite !  I  shut  my  eyes, 
And  do  my  very  utmost  to  be  wise ; 
Yet  see  you  still ;  and  hear,  though  closed  my  ears, 
And  think  I'm  young  in  spite  of  all  my  years ; 
Shall  I  forget  you  if  I  go  away  ? 
To  leave  is  painful,  but  absurd  to  stay ; 
I've  fifty  dreadful  reasons  to  obey. 
Adieu,  gay  loves,  it  is  too  late  a  day  I ' 


MARI  MAGNO.  325 

This  priest  beside  the  histy  conducteur 
Under  his  beaver  sat  and  looked  demure ; 
Faintly  he  smiled  the  company  to  please, 
And  folded  held  his  hands  above  his  knees.       • 
Then,  apropos  of  nothing,  had  we  heard 
He  asked,  about  a  thing  that  had  occurred 
At  the  Mont  Dore  a  little  time  ago, 
A  wondrous  cure  ?  and  when  we  answered,  No, 
About  a  little  girl  he  told  a  tale, 
Who,  when  her  medicines  were  of  no  avail, 
Was  by  the  doctor  ordered  to  Mont  Dore, 
But  nothing  gained  and  only  suffered  more. 
This  little  child  had  in  her  simple  way 
Unto  the  Blessed  Virgin  learnt  to  pray, 
And,  as  it  happened,  to  an  image  there 
By  the  roadside  one  day  she  made  her  prayer, 
And  of  our  Lady,  who  can  hear  on  high. 
Begged  for  her  parents'  sake  she  might  not  die. 
Our  Lady  of  Grace,  whose  attribute  is  love, 
Beheld  this  child,  and  listened  from  above. 
Her  parents  noticed  from  that  very  day 
The  malady  began  to  pass  away, 
And  but  a  fortnight  after,  as  they  tell, 
They  took  her  home  rejoicing,  sound  and  well. 
Things  come,  he  said,  to  show  us  every  hour 
We  are  surrounded  by  superior  power. 
Little  we  notice,  but  if  once  we  see, 
The  seed  of  faith  will  grow  into  a  tree. 
The  conducteur,  he  wisely  shook  his  head : 
Strange  things  do  happen  in  our  time,  he  said ; 
If  the  hon  Dieu  but  please,  no  doubt  indeed. 
When  things  are  desperate,  yet  they  will  succeed. 
Ask  the  postillion  here,  and  he  can  tell 
Who  cured  his  horse,  and  what  of  it  befell. 

Then  the  postillion,  in  his  smock  of  blue. 
His  pipe  into  his  mouth's  far  corner  drew, 
And  told  about  a  farrier  and  a  horse ; 
But  Auvergnat  grew  from  bad  to  worse ; 
His  rank  Arvernian  patois  was  so  strong. 
With  what  he  said  I  could  not  go  along ; 
And  what  befell  and  how  it  came  to  pass. 
And  if  it  were  a  horse  or  if  an  ass. 
The  sequence  of  his  phrase  I  could  not  keep, 


326  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  in  the  middle  fairly  sank  to  sleep. 
When  I  awoke,  I  heard  a  stream  below 
And  on  each  bank  saw  houses  in  a  row, 
Correze  the  stream,  the  houses  Tulle,  they  said ; 
Alighted  here  and  thankful  went  to  bed. 

*  But  how,'  said  one,  '  about  the  Pyrenees  ? 
In  Hamlet  give  us  Hamlet,  if  you  please ; 
Your  friend  declares  you  said  you  met  with  there 
A  peasant  beauty,  beauteous  past  compare. 
Who  fed  her  cows  the  mountain  peaks  between, 
And  asked  if  at  Villetri  you  had  been. 
And  was  Villetri  larger  than  was  Rome  ? 
Her  soldier-brother  went  away  from  home. 
Two  years  ago,  —  to  Rome  it  was  he  went, 
And  to  Villetri  was  this  summer  sent ; 
He  twenty-three,  and  she  was  sweet  seventeen, 
And  fed  her  cows  the  mountain  peaks  between. 
Lightly  along  a  rocky  path  she  led. 
And  from  a  grange  she  brought  you  milk  and  bread. 
In  summer  here  she  lived,  and  with  the  snow 
Went  in  October  to  the  fields  below ; 
And  where  you  lived,  she  asked,  and  oh,  they  say, 
That  with  the  English  we  shall  fight  some  day ; 
Loveliest  of  peasant  girls  that  e'er  was  seen. 
Feeding  her  cows  the  mountain  peaks  between.' 
'  'Tis  true,'  I  said,  '  though  to  betray  was  mean. 
My  Pyrenean  verses  will  you  hear. 
Though  not  about  that  peasant  girl,  I  fear.' 
'  Begin,'  they  said,  *  the  sweet  bucolic  song. 
Though  it  to  other  maids  and  other  cows  belong.' 

Currente  Calamo. 

Quick,  painter,  quick,  the  moment  seize 
Amid  the  snowy  Pyrenees  ; 
More  evanescent  than  the  snow, 
The  pictures  come,  are  seen,  and  go  : . 
Quick,  quick,  currente  calamo. 

I  do  not  ask  the  tints  that  fill 
The  gate  of  day  'twixt  hill  and  hill ; 
I  ask  not  for  the  hues  that  fleet 
Above  tlie  distant  peaks ;  my  feet 


MARI  MAGNO.  327 

Are  on  a  poplar-bordered  road, 
Where  with  a  saddle  and  a  load 
A  donkey,  old  and  ashen-grey, 
Reluctant  works  his  dusty  way. 
Before  him,  still  with  might  and  main 
Pulling  his  rope,  the  rustic  rein, 
A  girl :  before  both  him  and  me. 
Frequent  she  turns  and  lets  me  see, 
Unconscious,  lets  me  scan  and  trace  , 
The  sunny  darkness  of  her  face 
And  outlines  full  of  southern  grace. 

Following  I  notice,  yet  and  yet, 
Her  olive  skin,  dark  eyes  deep  set, 
And  black,  and  blacker  e'en  than  jet, 
The  escaping  hair  that  scantly  showed, 
Since  o'er  it  in  the  country  mode. 
For  winter  warmth  and  summer  shade, 
The  lap  of  scarlet  cloth  is  laid. 
And  then,  back-falling  from  the  head, 
A  crimson  kerchief  overspread 
Her  jacket  blue ;  thence  passing  down, 
A  skirt  of  darkest  yellow-brown. 
Coarse  stuff,  allowing  to  the  view 
The  smooth  limb  to  the  woollen  shoe. 

But  who  —  here's  some  one  following  too,  — 
A  priest,  and  reading  at  his  book ! 
Read  on,  0  priest,  and  do  not  look ; 
Consider,  —  she  is  but  a  child,  — 
Yet  might  your  faucy  be  beguiled. 
Read  on,  O  priest,  and  pass  and  go ! 
But  see,  succeeding  in  a  roAv, 
Two,  three,  and  four,  a  motley  train, 
Musicians  wandering  back  to  Spain ; 
With  fiddle  and  with  tambourine, 
A  man  with  women  following  seen. 
What  dresses,  ribbon-ends  and  flowers  ! 
And,  —  sight  to  wonder  at  for  hours,  — 
The  man,  —  to  Philip  has  he  sat  ? — 
With  butterfly-like  velvet  hat; 
One  dame  his  big  bassoon  conveys. 
On  one  his  gentle  arm  he  lays : 
They  stop,  and  look,  and  something  say, 
And  to  '  Espana '  ask  the  way. 


328  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

But  while  I  speak,  and  point  them  on, 
Alas  !  my  dearer  friends  are  gone ; 
The  dark-eyed  maiden  and  the  ass 
Have  had  the  time  the  bridge  to  pass. 
Vainly,  beyond  it  far  descried. 
Adieu,  and  peace  Avith  you  abide, 
Grey  donkey,  and  your  beauteous  guide. 
The  pictures  come,  the  pictures  go, 
Quick,  quick,  currente  calamo. 


They  praised  the  rhymes,  but  still  would  persevere 
The  eclogue  of  the  mountain  peaks  to  hear, 
Eclogue  that  never  was ;  and  then  awhile. 
Of  France,  and  Frenchmen,  and  our  native  isle, 
They  talked ;  pre-insular  above  the  rest, 
My  friend  his  ardent  politics  expressed ; 
France  was  behind  us  all,  he  saw  in  France 
Worse  retrogression,  and  the  least  advance. 
Her  revolutions  had  but  thrown  her  back. 
Powerful  just  now,  but  wholly  off  the  track ; 
They  in  religion  were,  as  I  had  seen. 
About  where  we  in  Chaucer's  time  had  been ; 
In  Chaucer's  time,  and  yet  their  Wickliffe  where  ? 
Something  they'd  kept  —  the  worst  part  —  of  Voltaire. 

Strong  for  Old  England,  was  New  England  too ; 
The  clergyman  was  neutral  in  his  view. 
And  I,  for  France  with  more  than  I  could  do. 
Though  sound  my  thesis  did  not  long  maintain. 
The  contemplation  of  the  nightly  main. 
The  vaulted  heavens  above,  and  under  these. 
The  black  ship  working  through  the  dusky  seas. 
Deserting,  to  our  narrow  berths  we  crept ; 
Sound  slumbered  there,  the  watch  while  others  kept. 

The  second  officer,  who  kept  the  watch, 
A  young  man,  fair  of  feature,  partly  Scotch 
And  partly  Irish  in  his  voice  and  way. 
Joined  us  the  evening  of  the  following  day, 
And  of  our  stories  when  he  heard  us  tell, 
Offered  to  give  a  narrative  as  welL 


MARI  MAGNO.  329 


THE  MATE'S   STORY. 

I've  often  wondered  how  it  is,  at  times 

Good  people  do  what  are  as  bad  as  crimes. 

A  common  person  would  have  been  ashamed 

To  do  Avhat  once  a  family  far-famed 

For  their  religious  Avays  was  kno-^Ti  to  do. 

Small  harm  befell,  small  thanks  to  them  were  due. 

They  from  abroad,  perhaps  it  cost  them  less, 

Had  brought  a  young  French  girl  as  governess, 

A  pretty,  youthful  thing  as  e'er  you  saw ; 

She  taught  the  children  how  to  play  and  draw, 

Of  course,  the  language  of  her  native  land ; 

English  she  scarcely  learnt  to  understand. 

After  a  time  they  wanted  her  no  more ; 

She  must  go  home,  —  but  how  to  send  her  o'er,  — 

Far  in  the  south  of  France  she  lived,  and  they 

In  Ireland  there  —  was  more  than  they  could  say. 

A  monthly  steamer,  as  they  chanced  to  know, 

From  Liverpool  went  over  to  Bordeaux, 

And  would,  they  thought,  exactly  meet  the  case. 

They  Avrote  and  got  a  friend  to  take  a  place ; 

And  from  her  salary  paid  her  money  down. 

A  trading  steamer  from  the  seaport  town 

Near  which  they  lived,  across  the  Channel  plied, 

And  this,  they  said,  a  passage  would  provide. 

With  pigs,  and  with  the  Irish  reaping  horde. 
This  pretty  tender  girl  was  put  on  board ; 
And  a  rough  time  of  it,  no  doubt,  had  she, 
Tossing  about  upon  the  Irish  Sea. 
Arrived  at  last  and  set  ashore,  she  found 
The  steamer  gone  for  Avhich  she  had  been  bound. 
The  pious  people,  in  their  careless  way. 
Had  made  some  loose  mistake  about  the  day. 
She  stood ;  the  passengers  with  whom  she  crossed 
Went  off,  and  she  remained  as  one  that's  lost. 

Think  of  the  hapless  creature  standing  here 
Alone,  beside  her  boxes  on  the  pier. 
Whither  to  turn,  and  where  to  try  and  go, 
She  knew  not ;  nay,  the  language  did  not  know. 
So  young  a  girl,  so  pretty  too,  set  down 
Here,  in  the  midst  of  a  great  seaport  town, 


330  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

What  might  have  happened  one  may  sadly  guess, 

Had  not  the  captain,  seeing  her  distress. 

Made  out  the  cause,  and  told  her  she  could  stay 

On  board  the  vessel  till  the  following  day. 

Next  day,  he  said  —  the  steamer  to  Bordeaux 

Was  gone,  no  doubt,  next  month  the  next  would  go; 

For  this  her  passage-money  she  had  paid. 

But  some  arrangement  could,  he  thought,  be  made, 

If  only  she  could  manage  to  afford 

To  wait  a  month  and  pay  for  bed  and  board. 

She  sadly  shook  her  head  —  well,  after  all, 

'Twas  a  bad  town,  and  mischief  might  befall. 

Would  she  go  back  ?     Indeed  'twas  but  a  shame 

To  take  her  back  to  those  from  whom  she  came. 

'  There's  one  thing.  Miss,'  said  he,  '  that  you  can  do ; 

It's  speaking  somewhat  sudden-like,  it's  true, 

But  if  you'll  marry  me,  I'll  marry  you. 

Maybe  you  won't,  but  if  you  will  yovi  can.' 

This  captain  was  a  young  and  decent  man, 

And  I  suppose  she  saw  no  better  way ; 

Marry  they  did,  and  married  live  this  day. 

Another  friend,  these  previous  nights  away, 
An  officer  of  engineers,  and  round 
By  Halifax  to  far  Bermuda  bound. 
Joined  us  this  night ;  a  rover  he  had  been. 
Many  strange  sights  and  many  climes  had  seen. 
And  much  of  various  life ;  his  comment  was,  'twas  well 
There  was  no  further  incident  to  tell. 
He'd  been  afraid  that  e'er  the  tale  was  o'er, 
'Twould  prove  the  captain  had  a  wife  before. 
The  poor  French  girl  was  luckier  than  she  knew ; 
Soldiers  and  sailors  had  so  often  two. 
And  it  was  something,  too,  for  men  who  went 
From  port  to  port  to  be  with  two  content. 
In  every  place  the  marriage  rite  supplied 
A  decent  spouse  to  whom  you  were  not  tied. 
Of  course  the  women  would  at  times  suspect, 
But  felt  their  reputations  were  not  wrecked. 

One  after  night  we  took  ourselves  to  task 
For  our  neglect  who  had  forborne  to  ask 
The  clergyman,  who  told  his  tale  so  well, 
Another  tale  for  our  behalf  to  tell. 


MARI  MAGNO.  331 

He  to  a  second  had  himself  confessed. 
Now,  when  to  hear  it  eagerly  we  pressed, 
He  put  us  off ;  but,  ere  the  night  was  done, 
Told  us  his  second,  and  his  sadder  one. 


THE  CLERGYMAN'S  SECOND  TALE. 

Edward  and  Jane  a  married  couple  were, 

And  fonder  she  of  him  or  he  of  her 

Was  hard  to  say ;  their  wedlock  had  begun    . 

When  in  one  year  they  both  were  twenty -one ; 

And  friends,  who  would  not  sanction,  left  them  free. 

He  gentle-born,  nor  his  inferior  she, 

And  neither  rich ;  to  the  newly-wedded  boy, 

A  great  Insurance  Office  found  employ. 

Strong  in  their  loves  and  hopes,  with  joy  they  took 

This  narrow  lot  and  the  world's  altered  look ; 

Beyond  their  home  they  nothing  sought  nor  craved, 

And  even  from  the  narrow  income  saved ; 

Their  busy  days  for  no  ennui  had  place, 

Neither  grew  weary  of  the  other's  face. 

Nine  happy  years  had  crowned  their  married  state 

With  children,  one  a  little  girl  of  eight ; 

With  nine  industrious  years  his  income  grew, 

With  his  employers  rose  his  favour  too ; 

Nine  years  complete  had  passed  when  something  ailed. 

Friends  and  the  doctors  said  his  health  had  failed, 

He  must  recruit,  or  worse  would  come  to  pass ; 

And  though  to  rest  was  hard  for  him,  alas ! 

Three  months  of  leave  he  found  he  could  obtain, 

And  go,  they  said,  get  well  and  work  again. 

Just  at  this  juncture  of  their  married  life. 
Her  mother,  sickening,  begged  to  have  his  wife. 
Her  house  among  the  hills  in  Surrey  stood. 
And  to  be  there,  said  Jane,  would  do  the  children  good. 

They  let  their  house,  and  with  the  children  she 
Went  to  her  mother,  he  beyond  the  sea ; 
Far  to  the  south  his  orders  were  to  go. 
A  watering-place,  whose  name  we  need  not  know, 
For  climate  and  for  change  of  scene  was  best : 
There  he  was  bid,  laborious  task,  to  rest. 


332  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

A  dismal  thing  in  foreign  lands  to  roam 
To  one  accustomed  to  an  English  home, 
Dismal  yet  more,  in  health  if  feeble  grown, 
To  live  a  boarder,  helpless  and  alone 
In  foreign  town,  and  worse  yet  worse  is  made, 
If  'tis  a  town  of  pleasure  and  parade. 
Dispiriting  the  public  walks  and  seats. 
The  alien  faces  that  an  alien  meets ; 
Drearily  every  day  this  old  routine  repeats. 

Yet  here  this  alien  prospered,  change  of  air 
Or  change  of  scene  did  more  than  tenderest  care ; 
Three  weeks  were  scarce  completed,  to  his  home. 
He  wrote  to  say,  he  thought  he  now  could  come 
His  usual  work  was  sure  he  could  resume. 
And  something  said  about  the  place's  gloom, 
And  how  he  loathed  idling  his  time  away. 
O,  but  they  wrote,  his  wife  and  all,  to  say 
He  must  not  think  of  it,  'twas  quite  too  quick  ; 
Let  was  their  house,  her  mother  still  was  sick, 
Three  months  were  given,  and  three  he  ought  to  take ; 
For  his,  and  hers,  and  for  his  children's  sake. 

He  wrote  again,  'twas  weariness  to  wait, 
This  doing  nothing  was  a  thing  to  hate; 
He'd  cast  his  nine  laborious  years  away, 
And  was  as  fresh  as  on  his  wedding-day ; 
At  last  he  yielded,  feared  he  must  obey. 

And  now,  his  health  repaired,  his  spirits  grown 
Less  feeble,  less  he  cared  to  live  alone. 
'Twas  easier  now  to  face  the  crowded  shore. 
And  table  d'hote  less  tedious  than  befoi-e ; 
His  ancient  silence  sometimes  he  would  break, 
And  the  mute  Englishman  was  heard  to  speak. 
His  youthful  colour  soon,  his  youthful  air 
Came  back ;  amongst  the  crowd  of  idlers  there, 
With  whom  good  looks  entitle  to  good  name. 
For  his  good  looks  he  gained  a  sort  of  fame, 
People  would  watch  him  as  he  went  and  came. 

Explain  the  tragic  mystery  who  can, 
Something  there  is,  we  know  not  what,  in  man, 
With  all  established  happiness  at  strife, 
And  bent  on  revolution  in  his  life. 
Explain  the  plan  of  Providence  who  dare, 
And  tell  us  wherefore  in  this  world  there  are 


MARI  MAG  NO.  333 

Beings  who  seem  for  this  alone  to  live, 

Temptation  to  another  soul  to  give. 

A  beauteous  woman  at  the  table  d'hote, 

To  try  this  English  heart,  at  least  to  note 

This  English  countenance,  conceived  the  whim. 

She  sat  exactly  opposite  to  him. 

Ere  long  he  noticed  with  a  vague  surprise 

How  every  day  on  him  she  bent  her  eyes ; 

Soft  and  inquiring  now  they  looked,  and  then 

Wholly  withdrawn,  unnoticed  came  again ; 

His  shrunk  aside :  and  yet  there  came  a  day, 

Alas  !  they  did  not  wholly  turn  away. 

So  beautiful  her  beauty  was,  so  strange. 

And  to  his  northern  feeling  such  a  change ; 

Her  throat  and  neck  Junonian  in  their  grace ; 

The  blood  just  mantled  in  her  southern  face : 

Dark  hair,  dark  eyes ;  and  all  the  arts  she  had 

With  which  some  dreadful  power  adorns  the  bad,  — 

Bad  Avomen  in  their  youth,  —  and  young  was  she. 

Twenty  perhaps,  at  the  utmost  twenty-three,  — 

And  timid  seemed,  and  innocent  of  ill ;  — 

Her  feelings  jv^ent  and  came  without  her  will. 

You  will  not  wish  minutely  to  know  all  % 

His  efforts  in  the  prospect  of  the  fall. 
He  oscillated  to  and  fro,  he  took 
High  courage  oft,  temptation  from  him  shook, 
Compelled  himself  to  virtuous  thoughts  and  just, 
And  as  it  were  in  ashes  and  in  dust 
Abhorred  his  thought.     But  living  thus  alone, 
Of  solitary  tedium  weary  grown ; 
From  sweet  society  so  long  debarred, 
And  fearing  in  his  judgment  to  be  hard 
On  her  —  that  he  was  sometimes  off  his  guard 
What  wonder  ?     She  relentless  still  pursued 
Unmarked,  and  tracked  him  in  his  solitude. 
And  not  in  vain,  alas ! 

The  days  went  by  and  found  him  in  the  snare. 
But  soon  a  letter  full  of  tenderest  care 
Came  from  his  wife,  the  little  daughter  too 
In  a  large  hand  —  the  exercise  was  new  — 
To  her  papa  her  love  and  kisses  sent. 
Into  his  very  heart  and  soul  it  went. 
Forth  on  the  high  and  dusty  road  he  sought 


334  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Some  issue  for  the  vortex  of  his  thought. 
Returned,  packed  up  his  things,  and  ere  the  day 
Descended,  was  a  hundred  miles  away. 

There  are,  I  know  of  course,  who  lightly  treat 
Such  slips ;  we  stumble,  we  regain  our  feet ; 
What  can  we  do  ?  they  say,  but  hasten  on 
And  disregard  it  as  a  thing  that's  gone. 
Many  there  are  who  in  a  case  like  this 
Would  calm  re-seek  their  sweet  domestic  bliss ; 
Accept  unshamed  the  wifely  tender  kiss, 
And  lift  their  little  children  on  their  knees. 
And  take  their  kisses  too ;  with  hearts  at  ease 
Will  read  the  household  prayers,  —  to  church  will  go, 
And  sacrament  —  nor  care  if  people  know. 
Such  men  —  so  minded  — do  exist,  God  knows. 
And,  God  be  thanked,  this  was  not  one  of  those. 

Late  in  the  night,  at  a  provincial  town 
In  France,  a  passing  traveller  was  put  down ; 
Haggard  he  looked,  his  hair  was  turning  grey, 
His  hair,  his  clothes,  were  much  in  disarray : 
In  a  bedchamber  here  one  day  he  stayed, 
Wrote  letters,  posted  them,  his  reckon^g  paid 
Aii&  went.     'Twas  Edward  rushing  from  his  fall ; 
Here  to  his  wife  he  wrote  and  told  her  all. 
Forgiveness  —  yes,  perhaps  she  might  forgive  — 
For  her,  and  for  the  children,  he  must  live 
At  any  rate  ;  but  their  old  home  to  share 
As  yet  was  something  that  he  could  not  bear. 
She  with  her  mother  still  her  home  should  make, 
A  lodging  near  the  office  he  should  take  ; 
And  once  a  quarter  he  would  bring  his  pay. 
And  he  would  see  her  on  the  quarter-day. 
But  her  alone ;  e'en  this  would  dreadful  be, 
The  children  'twas  not  possible  to  see. 

Back  to  the  office  at  this  early  day 
To  see  him  come,  old-looking  thus  and  grey. 
His  comrades  wondered,  wondered  too  to  see 
How  dire  a  passion  for  his  work  had  he. 
How  in  a  garret  too  he  lived  alone ; 
So  cold  a  husband,  cold  a  father  grown. 

In  a  green  lane  beside  her  mother's  home, 
Where  in  old  days  tlieyhad  been  used  to  roam, 
His  wife  had  met  him  on  the  appointed  day, 


MARI  MAGNO.  335 

Fell  on  his  neck,  said  all  that  love  could  say, 
And  Avept ;  he  put  the  loving  arms  away. 
At  dusk  they  met,  for  so  was  his  desire ; 
She  felt  his  cheeks  and  forehead  all  on  fire  ; 
The  kisses  which  she  gave  he  could  not  brook ; 
Once  in  her  face  he  gave  a  sidelong  look, 
Said,  but  for  them  he  wished  that  he  were  dead, 
And  put  the  money  in  her  hand  and  fled. 

Sometimes'  in  easy  and  familiar  tone. 
Of  sins  resembling  more  or  less  his  own 
He  heard  his  comrades  in  the  office  speak. 
And  felt  the  colour  tingling  in  his  cheek  ; 
Lightly  they  spoke  as  of  a  thing  of  nought ; 
He  of  their  judgment  ne'er  so  much  as  thought. 

I  know  not,  in  his  solitary  pains. 
Whether  he  seemed  to  feel  as  in  his  veins 
The  moral  mischief  circulating  still, 
Racked  with  the  torture  of  the  double  will ; 
And  like  some  frontier-land  where  armies  wage 
The  mighty  wars,  engage  and  yet  engage 
All  through  the  summer  in  the  fierce  campaign ; 
March,  counter-march,  gain,  lose,  and  yet  regain ; 
With  battle  reeks  the  desolated  plain ; 
So  felt  his  nature  yielded  to  the  strife 
Of  the  contending  good  and  ill  of  life. 

But  a  whole  year  this  penance  he  endured, 
Nor  even  then  would  think  that  he  was  cured. 
Once  in  a  quarter,  in  the  country  lane. 
He  met  his  wife  and  paid  his  quarter's  gain ; 
To  bring  the  children  she  besought  in  vain. 

He  has  a  life  small  happiness  that  gives, 
Who  friendless  in  a  London  lodging  lives. 
Dines  in  a  dingy  chop-house,  and  returns 
To  a  lone  room  while  all  within  him  yearns 
For  sympathy,  and  his  whole  nature  burns 
With  a  fierce  thirst  for  some  one,  —  is  there  none  ?  — 
To  expend  his  human  tenderness  upon. 
So  blank,  and  hard,  and  stony  is  the  way 
To  walk,  I  wonder  not  men  go  astray. 

Edward,  whom  still  a  sense  that  never  slept 
On  the  strict  path  undeviating  kept. 
One  winter-evening  found  himself  pursued 
Amidst  the  dusky  thronging  multitude. 


336  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Quickly  he  walked,  but  strangely  swift  was  she, 

And  pertinacious,  and  would  make  him  see. 

He  saw  at  last,  and  recognising  slow, 

Discovered  in  this  hapless  thing  of  woe 

The  occasion  of  his  shame  twelve  wretched  months  ago. 

She  gaily  laughed,  she  cried,  and  sought  his  hand, 

And  spoke  sweet  phrases  of  her  native  land; 

Exiled,  she  said,  her  lovely  home  had  left, 

]S"ot  to  forsake  a  friend  of  all  but  her  bereft ; 

Exiled,  she  cried,  for  liberty,  for  love, 

She  was  ;  still  limpid  eyes  she  turned  above. 

So  beauteous  once,  and  now  snch  misery  in, 

Pity  had  all  but  softened  him  to  sin  ; 

But  while  she  talked,  and  wildly  langhed,  and  cried. 

And  plucked  the  hand  which  sadly  he  denied, 

A  stranger  came  and  swept  her  from  his  side. 

He  watched  them  in  the  gas-lit  darkness  go. 
And  a  voice  said  within  him.  Even  so. 
So  'midst  the  gloomy  mansions  where  they  dwell 
The  lost  souls  walk  the  flaming  streets  of  hell ! 
The  lamps  appeared  to  fling  a  baleful  glare, 
A  brazen  heat  was  heavy  in  the  air  ; 
And  it  was  hell,  and  he  some  unblest  wanderer  there. 

For  a  long  hour  he  stayed  the  streets  to  roam. 
Late  gatliering  sense,  he  gained  his  garret  home ; 
There  found  a  telegram  that  bade  him  come 
Straight  to  the  country,  where  his  daughter,  still 
His  darling  child,  lay  dangerously  ill. 
The  doctor  would  he  bring  ?     Away  he  went 
And  found  the  doctor ;  to  the  office  sent 
A  letter,  asking  leave,  and  went  again. 
And  with  a  wild  confusion  in  his  brain, 
Joining  the  doctor  caught  the  latest  train. 
The  train  swift  whirled  them  from  the  city  light 
Into  the  shadows  of  the  natural  night. 

'Twas  silent  starry  midnight  on  the  down. 
Silent  and  chill,  when  they,  straight  come  from  town. 
Leaving  the  station,  walked  a  mile  to  gain 
The  lonely  house  amid  the  hills  where  Jane, 
Her  mother,  and  her  children  should  be  found. 
Waked  by  their  entrance,  but  of  sleep  unsound. 
The  child  not  yet  her  altered  father  knew  ; 
Yet  talked  of  her  papa  in  her  delirium  too. 


MART  MAGNO.  337 

Danger  there  was,  yet  hope  there  was ;  and  he, 
To  attend  the  crisis,  and  the  changes  see, 
And  take  the  steps,  at  hand  should  surely  be. 

Said  Jane  the  following  day,  '  Edward,  you  know, 
Over  and  over  I  have  told  you  so, 
As  in  a  better  world  I  seek  to  live, 
As  I  desire  forgiveness,  I  forgive. 
Forgiveness  does  not  feel  the  word  to  say,  — 
As  I  believe  in  One  who  takes  away 
Our  sin  and  gives  us  righteousness  instead,  — 
You  to  this  sin,  I  do  believe,  are  dead. 
'Twas  I,  you  know,  Avho  let  you  leave  your  home 
And  bade  you  stay  when  you  so  wished  to  come ; 
My  fault  was  that :  I've  told  you  so  before. 
And  vainly  told ;  but  now  'tis  something  more. 
Say,  is  it  right,  without  a  single  friend, 
Without  advice,  to  leave  me  to  attend 
Children  and  mother  both  ?     Indeed  I've  thought 
Through  want  of  you  the  chikl  her  fever  caught. 
Chances  of  mischief  come  with  every  hour. 
It  is  not  in  a  single  woman's  power 
Alone  and  ever  haunted  more  or  less 
With  anxious  thoughts  of  you  and  your  distress,  — 
'Tis  not  indeed,  I'm  sure  of  it,  in  me,  — 
All  things  with  perfect  judgment  to  foresee. 
This  weight  has  grown  too  heavy  to  endure ; 
And  you,  I  tell  you  now,  and  I  am  sure, 
Neglect  your  duty  both  to  God  and  man 
Persisting  thus  in  your  unnatural  plan. 
This  feeling  you  must  conquer,  for  you  can. 
And,  after  all,  you  know  we  are  but  dust. 
What  are  we,  in  ourselves  that  Ave  should  trust  ? ' 

He  scarcely  answered  her ;  but  he  obtained 
A  longer  leave,  and  quietly  remained. 
Slowly  the  child  recovered,  long  was  ill. 
Long  delicate,  and  he  must  watch  her  still ; 
To  give  up  seeing  her  he  could  not  bear, 
To  leave  her  less  attended,  did  not  dare. 
The  child  recovered  slowly,  slowly  too 
Recovered  he,  and  more  familiar  drew 
Home's  happy  breath  ;  and  apprehension  o'er. 
Their  former  life  he  yielded  to  restore, 
And  to  his  mournful  garret  went  no  more. 


338  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Midnight  was  dim  and  hazy  overhead  , 

When  the  tale  ended  and  we  turned  to  bed. 
On  the  companion-way,  descending  slow, 
The  artillery  captain,  as  we  went  below. 
Said  to  the  lawyer,  life  could  not  be  meant 
To  be  so  altogether  innocent. 
What  did  the  atonement  show  ?  he,  for  the  rest. 
Could  not,  he  thought,  have  written  and  confessed. 
Weakness  it  was,  and  adding  crime  to  crime 
To  leave  his  family  that  length  of  time. 
The  lawyer  said ;  the  American  was  su]*e 
Each  nature  knows  instinctively  its  cure. 

Midnight  was  in  the  cabin  still  and  dead, 
Our  fellow-passengers  were  all  in  bed, 
We  followed  them,  and  nothing  further  spoke. 
Out  of  the  sweetest  of  my  sleep  I  woke 
At  two,  and  felt  we  stopped  ;  amid  a  dream 
Of  England  knew  the  letting-off  of  steam 
And  rose.     'Twas  fog,  and  were  we  off  Cape  Race  ? 
The  captain  would  be  certain  of  his  place. 
Wild  in  white  vapour  flew  away  the  force. 
And  self-arrested  was  the  eager  course 
That  had  not  ceased  before.     But  shortly  now 
Cape  Race  was  made  to  starboard  on  the  bow. 
The  paddles  plied.     I  slept.     The  following  night 
In  the  mid  seas  we  saw  a  quay  and  light. 
And  peered  through  mist  into  an  unseen  town. 
And  on  scarce-seeming  land  set  one  companion  down, 
And  went.     With  morning  and  a  shining  sun, 
Under  the  bright  New  Brunswick  coast  we  run, 
And  visible  discern  to  every  eye 
Rocks,  pines,  and  little  ports,  and  passing  by 
The  boats  and  coasting  craft.     When  sunk  the  night, 
Early  now  sunk,  the  northern  streamers  bright 
Floated  and  flashed,  the  cliffs  and  clouds  behind, 
With  phosphorus  the  billows  all  were  lined. 

That  evening,  while  the  arctic  streamers  bright 
Rolled  from  the  clouds  in  waves  of  airy  light, 
The  lawyer  said,  *  I  laid  by  for  to-night 
A  story  that  I  would  not  tell  before ; 
For  the  last  time,  a  confidential  four, 
We  meet.     Receive  in  your  elected  ears 
A  tale  of  human  suffering  and  tears.' 


MART  MAGNO.  339 

THE  LAWYER'S   SECOND  TALE. 

Christian, 

A  Highland  inn  among  the  western  hills, 
A  single  parlour,  single  bed  that  fills 
With  fisher  or  with  tourist,  as  may  be ; 
A  waiting-maid,  as  fair  as  you  can  see, 
With  hazel  eyes,  and  frequent  blushing  face. 
And  ample  brow,  and  with  a  rustic  grace 
In  all  her  easy  quiet  motions  seen. 
Large  of  her  age,  which  haply  is  nineteen. 
Christian  her  name,  in  full  a  pleasant  name. 
Christian  and  Christie  scarcely  seem  the  same ;  — 
A  college  fellow,  who  has  sent  away 
The  pupils  he  has  taught  for  many  a  day, 
And  comes  for  fishing  and  for  solitude, 
Perhaps  a  little  pensive  in  his  mood. 
An  aspiration  and  a  thought  have  failed. 
Where  he  had  hoped,  another  has  prevailed, 
But  to  the  joys  of  hill  and  stream  alive, 
And  in  his  boyhood  yet,  at  twenty-five. 

A  merry  dance,  that  made  young  people  meet. 
And  set  them  moving,  both  with  hands  and  feet ; 
A  dance  in  which  he  danced,  and  nearer  knew 
The  soft  brown  eyes,  and  found  them  tender  too. 
A  dance  that  lit  in  two  young  hearts  the  fire. 
The  low  soft  flame,  of  loving  sweet  desire, 
And  made  him  feel  that  he  could  feel  again ;  — 
The  preface  this,  what  follows  to  explain. 

That  night  he  kissed,  he  held  her  in  his  arms. 
And  felt  the  subtle  virtue  of  her  charms ; 
Nor  less  bewildered  on  the  following  day, 
He  kissed,  he  found  excuse  near  her  to  stay,  — 
Was  it  not  love  ?     And  yet  the  truth  to  speak, 
Playing  the  fool  for  haply  half  a  week, 
He  yet  had  fled,  so  strong  within  him  dwelt 
The  horror  of  the  sin,  and  such  he  felt 
The  miseries  to  the  woman  that  ensue. 
He  wearied  long  his  brain  with  reasonings  fine, 
But  when  at  evening  dusk  he  came  to  dine, 
In  linsey  petticoat  and  jacket  blue 


340  CLOUGirS  POEMS. 

She  stood,  so  radiant  and  so  modest  too, 

All  into  air  his  strong  conclusions  flew. 

Now  should  he  go.     But  dim  and  drizzling  too, 

For  a  night  march,  to-night  will  hardly  do, 

A  march  of  sixteen  weary  miles  of  way. 

No,  by  the  chances  which  our  lives  obey. 

No,  by  the  heavens  and  this  sweet  face  he'll  stay. 

A  week  he  stayed,  and  still  was  loth  to  go. 
But  she  grew  anxious  and  would  have  it  so. 
Her  time  of  service  shortly  would  be  o'er. 
And  she  would  leave ;  her  mistress  knew  before. 
Where  would  she  go  ?     To  Glasgow,  if  she  could ; 
Her  father's  sister  would  be  kind  and  good ; 
An  only  child  she  was,  an  orphan  left. 
Of  all  her  kindred,  save  of  this,  bereft. 
Said  he,  '  Your  guide  to  Glasgow  let  me  be, 
You  little  know,  you  have  not  tried  the  sea ; 
Say,  at  the  ferry  when  are  we  to  meet  ? 
Thither,  I  guess,  you  travel  on  your  feet.' 
She  would  be  there  on  Tuesday  next  at  three ; 
*  0  dear,  how  glad  and  thankful  she  would  be ; 
But  don't,'  she  said,  '  be  troubled  much  for  me.' 

Punctual  they  met,  a  second-class  he  took, 
More  naturally  to  her  wants  to  look, 
And  from  her  side  was  seldom  far  away. 
So  quiet,  so  indifferent  yet,  were  they. 
As  fellow-servants  travelling  south  they  seemed. 
And  no  one  of  a  love-relation  dreamed. 
At  Oban,  where  the  stormy  darkness  fell. 
He  got  two  chambers  in  a  cheap  hotel. 
At  Oban  of  discomfort  one  is  sure, 
Little  the  difference  whether  rich  or  poor. 

Around  the  Mull  the  passage  now  to  make. 
They  go  aboard,  and  separate  tickets  take, 
First-class  for  him,  and  second-class  for  her. 
No  other  first-class  passengers  there  were. 
And  with  the  captain  walking  soon  alone. 
This  Highland  girl,  he  said,  to  him  was  known. 
He  had  engaged  to  take  her  to  her  kin ; 
Could  she  be  put  the  ladies'  cabin  in '.' 
The  difference  gladly  he  himself  would  pay. 
The  weather  seemed  but  menacing  to-day. 


MART  MAG  NO.  341 

She  ne'er  had  travelled  from  her  home  before, 
He  wished  to  be  at  hand  to  hear  about  her  more. 

Curious  it  seemed,  but  he  had  such  a  tone, 
And  kept  at  first  so  carefully  alone, 
And  she  so  quiet  was,  and  so  discreet. 
So  heedful,  ne'er  to  seek  him  or  to  meet. 
The  first  small  wonder  quickly  passed  away. 

And  so  from  Oban's  little  land-locked  bay 
Forth  out  to  Jura  —  Jura  pictured  high 
With  lofty  peaks  against  the  Avestern  sky, 
Jura,  that  far  o'erlooks  the  Atlantic  seas. 
The  loftiest  of  the  Southern  Hebrides. 
Through  the  main  sea  to  Jura ;  —  when  we  reach 
Jura,  we  turn  to  leftward  to  the  breach. 
And  southward  strain  the  narrow  channel  through, 
And  Colonsay  we  pass  and  Islay  too ; 
Cantire  is  on  the  left,  and  all  the  day 
A  dull  dead  calm  upon  the  watei-s  lay. 

Sitting  below,  after  some  length  of  while. 
He  sought  her,  and  the  tedium  to  beguile. 
He  ventured  some  experiments  to  make. 
The  measure  of  her  intellect  to  take. 
Upon  the  cabin  table  chanced  to  lie 
A  book  of  popular  astronomy  ; 
In  this  he  tried  her,  and  discoursed  away 
Of  Winter,  Summer,  and  of  Night  and  Day. 
Still  to  the  task  a  reasoning  power  she  brought. 
And  followed,  slowly  followed  with  the  thought ; 
How  beautiful  it  was  to  see  the  stir 
Of  natural  wonder  waking  thus  in  her ; 
But  loth  was  he  to  set  on  books  to  pore 
An  intellect  so  charming  in  the  ore. 

And  she,  perhaps,  had  comprehended  soon 
Even  the  nodes,  so  puzzling,  of  the  moon  ; 
But  neaving  now  the  Mull  they  met  the  gale 
Right  in  their  teeth :  and  should  the  fuel  fail  ? 
Thinking  of  her,  he  grew  a  little  pale. 
But  bravely  she  the  terrors,  miseries,  took : 
And  met  him  with  a  sweet  courageous  look : 
Once,  at  the  worst,  unto  his  side  she  drew, 
And  said  a  little  tremulously  too, 
'  If  we  must  die,  ^ilease  let  me  come  to  you.' 

I  know  not  by  what  change  of  wind  or  tide,  . 


342  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Heading  the  Mull,  they  gained  the  eastern  side, 
But  stiller  now,  and  sunny  e'en  it  grew; 
Arran's  high  peaks  unmantled  to  the  view ; 
While  to  the  north,  far  seen  from  left  to  right. 
The  Highland  range  extended  snowy  white. 

Now  in  the  Clyde,  he  asked,  what  would  be  thought, 
In  Glasgow,  of  the  company  she  brought : 
'  You  know,'  he  said,  '  how  I  desire  to  stay ; 
We've  played  at  strangers  for  so  long  a  day, 
But  for  a  while  I  yet  would  go  away.' 

She  said,  0  no,  indeed  they  must  not  part. 
Her  father's  sister  had  a  kindly  heart. 
'  I'll  tell  her  all,  and  0,  when  you  she  sees, 
I  think  she'll  not  be  difficult  to  please.' 
Landed  at  Glasgow,  quickly  they  espied 
Macfarlane,  grocer,  by  the  river  side : 
To  greet  her  niece  the  woman  joyful  ran. 
But  looked  with  wonder  on  the  tall  young  man. 
Into  the  house  the  women  went  and  talked. 
He  with  the  grocer  in  the  doorway  walked. 
He  told  him  he  was  looking  for  a  set 
Of  lodgings  :  had  he  any  he  could  let  ? 

The  man  was  called  to  council  with  his  wife ; 
They  took  the  thing  as  what  will  be  in  life. 
Half  in  a  kind,  half  in  a  worldly  way ; 
They  said,  the  lassie  might  play  out  her  play. 
•  The  gentleman  should  have  the  second  floor, 
At  thirty  shillings,  for  a  week  or  more. 

Some  days  in  this  obscurity  he  stayed, 
Happy  with  her,  and  some  inquiry  made 
(For  friends  he  found)  and  did  his  best  to  see. 
What  hope  of  getting  pupils  there  would  be. 
This  must  he  do,  'twas  evident,  'twas  clear. 
Marry  and  seek  a  humble  maintenance  here. 
Himself  he  had  a  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
To  this  plain  business  he  would  beml  his  life. 
And  find  his  joy  in  children  and  in  wife, 
A  wife  so  good,  so  tender,  and  so  true. 
Mother  to  be  of  glorious  children  too. 

Half  to  excuse  his  present  lawless  way, 
He  to  the  grocer  happened  once  to  say 
Marriage  would  cost  him  more  than  otliers  dear. 
Cost  him,  indeed,  three  hundred  pounds  a-year. 


MARI  MAGNO.  343 

'  'Deed,'  said  the  man,  '  a  heavy  price,  no  doubt, 
For  a  bit  form  that  one  can  do  without.' 
And  asked  some  questions,  pertinent  and  plain, 
Exacter  information  to  obtain ; 
He  took  a  little  trouble  to  explain. 

The  College  Audit  now,  to  last  at  least 
Three  weeks,  ere  ending  with  the  College  Feast, 
He  must  attend,  a  tedious,  dull  affair, 
But  he,  as  junior  Bursar,  must  be  there. 
Three  weeks,  however,  quickly  would  be  fled, 
And  then  he'd  come,  —  he  didn't  say  to  wed. 

With  plans  of  which  he  nothing  yet  would  say, 
Preoccupied  upon  the  parting  day, 
He  seemed  a  little  absent  and  distrait ; 
But  she,  as  knowing  nothing  was  amiss. 
Gave  him  her  fondest  smile,  her  sweetest  kiss. 

A  fortnight  after,  or  a  little  more. 
As  at  the  Audit,  weary  of  the  bore. 
He  sat,  and  of  his  future  prospects  thought, 
A  letter  in  an  unknown  hand  was  brought. 
'Twas  from  Macfarlane,  and  to  let  him  know 
To  South  Australia  they  proposed  to  go. 
*  Rich  friends  we  have,  who  have  advised  us  thus. 
Occasion  offers  suitable  for  us ; 
Christie  we  take ;  whate'er  she  find  of  new, 
She'll  ne'er  forget  the  joy  she's  had  with  you; 
'Tis  an  expensive  pilgrimage  to  make. 
You'll  like  to  send  a  trifle  for  her  sake.' 
Nothing  he  said  of  when  the  ship  Avould  sail. 

That  very  night,  by  swift-returning  mail. 
Ten  pounds  he  sent,  for  what  he  did  not  know ; 
And  '  In  no  case,'  he  said,  *  let  Christian  go.' 
He  in  three  days  would  come,  and  for  his  life 
Would  claim  her  and  declare  her  as  his  wife. 

Swift  the  night-mail  conveyed  his  missive  on ; 
He  followed  in  three  days,  and  found  them  gone. 
All  three  had  sailed :  he  looked  as  though  he  dreamed ; 
The  money-order  had  been  cashed,  it  seemed. 

The  Clergyman,  '  This  story  is  mere  pain,' 
Exclaimed,  '  for  if  the  women  don't  sustain 
The  moral  standard,  all  we  do  is  vain.' 

'  But  what  we  want,'  the  Yankee  said, '  to  know, 


344  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Is  if  the  girl  went  willingly  or  no. 
Sufficient  motive  though  one  does  not  see, 
'Tis  clear  the  grocer  used  some  trickery.' 

He  judged  himself,  so  strong  the  clinging  in 
This  kind  of  people  is  to  kith  and  kin ; 
For  if  they  went  and  she  remained  behind, 
No  one  she  had,  if  him  she  failed  to  find. 
Alas,  this  lawless  loving  Avas  the  cause. 
She  did  not  dare  to  think  how  dear  she  was. 
Justly  his  guilty  tardiness  he  curst. 
He  should  have  owned  her  when  he  left  her  first. 
And  something  added  how  upon  the  sea. 
She  perilled,  too,  a  life  that  was  to  be ; 
A  child  that,  born  in  far  Australia,  there 
Would  have  no  father  and  no  father's  care. 
So  to  the  South  a  lonely  man  returned, 
For  other  scenes  and  busier  life  he  burned,  — 
College  he  left  and  settled  soon  in  town. 
Wrote  in  the  journals,  gained  a  swift  renown. 
Soon  into  high  society  he  came, 
And  still  where'er  he  went  outdid  his  fame. 
All  the  more  liked  and  more  esteemed,  the  less 
He  seemed  to  make  an  object  of  success. 

An  active  literary  life  he  spent. 
Towards  lofty  points  of  public  practice  bent, 
Was  never  man  so  carefully  who  read. 
Whose  plans  so  well  were  fashioned  in  his  head, 
Nor  one  who  truths  so  luminously  said. 
Some  years  in  various  labours  thus  he  passed, 
A  spotless  course  maintaining  to  the  last. 
Twice  upon  Government  Commissions  served 
With  honour ;  place,  which  he  declined,  deserved. 
He  married  then,  —  a  marriage  fit  and  good, 
That  kept  him  where  his  worth  was  understood ; 
A  widow,  wealthy,  and  of  noble  blood. 
Mr.  and  Lady  Mary  are  they  styled, 
One  grief  is  theirs  —  to  be  without  a  child. 

I  did  not  tell  you  how  he  went  before 
To  South  Australia,  vainly  to  exi)lore. 
The  ship  had  come  to  Adelaide,  no  doubt ; 
Watching  tlie  papers  he  had  made  it  out, 
But  of  themselves,  in  country  or  in  town, 


MART  MAG  NO.  345 

Nothing  discovered,  travelling  up  and  down. 

Only  an  entry  of  uncertain  sound, 

In  an  imperfect  register  lie  found. 

His  son,  he  thought,  but  could  not  prove  it  true ; 

The  surname  of  the  girl  it  chanced  he  never  knew. 

But  this  uneasy  feeling  gathered  strength 

As  years  advanced,  and  it  became  at  length 

His  secret  torture  and  his  secret  joy 

To  think  about  his  lost  Australian  boy. 

Somewhere  in  wild  colonial  lands  has  grown 

A  child  that  is  his  true  and  very  own. 

This  strong  parental  passion  fills  his  mind. 

To  all  the  dubious  chances  makes  him  blind. 

Still  he  will  seek,  and  still  he  hopes  to  find. 

Again  will  go. 

Said  I,  '  O  let  him  stay. 
And  in  a  London  drawing-room  some  day  — 
Rings  on  her  fingers,  brilliants  in  her  hair, 
The  lady  of  the  latest  millionnaire  — 
She'll  come,  and  with  a  gathering  slow  surprise 
On  Lady  Mary's  husband  turn  her  eyes : 
The  soft  brown  eyes  that  in  a  former  day 
From  his  discretion  lured  him  all  astray. 
At  home,  six  bouncing  girls,  who  more  or  less 
Are  learning  English  of  a  governess, 
Six  boisterous  boys,  as  like  as  pear  to  pear ; 
Only  the  eldest  has  a  different  air.' 

'  You  jest,'  he  said,  '  indeed  it  happened  so.' 

From  a  great  party  just  about  to  go. 

He  saw,  he  knew,  and  ere  she  saw  him,  said 

Swift  to  his  wife  as  for  the  door  he  made, 

'  My  Highland  bride !  to  escape  a  scene  I  go, 

Stay,  find  her  out  —  great  God !  —  and  let  me  know.' 

The  Lady  Mary  turned  to  scrutinise 
The  lovely  brow,  the  beautiful  brown  eyes. 
One  moment,  then  performed  her  perfect  part. 
And  did  her  spiriting  with  simplest  art. 
Was  introduced,  her  former  friends  had  known, 
Say,  might  she  call  to-morrow  afternoon 
At  three  ?     0  yes  !     At  three  she  made  her  call, 
And  told  her  who  she  was  and  told  her  all. 
Her  lady  manners  all  she  laid  aside ; 


346  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Like  women  the  two  women  kissed  and  cried. 
Half  overwhelmed  sat  Christian  by  her  side, 
While  she,  '  You  know  he  never  knew  the  day 
When  you  would  sail,  but  he  believed  you'd  stay 
Because  he  wrote  —  you  never  knew,  you  say,  — 
Wrote  that  in  three  days'  time,  they  need  not  fear, 
He'd  come  and  then  would  marry  you,  my  dear. 
You  never  knew  ?     And  he  had  planned  to  live 
At  Glasgow,  lessons  had  arranged  to  give. 
Alas,  then  to  Australia  he  went  out. 
All  through  the  land  to  find  you  sought  about, 
And  found  a  trace  which,  though  it  left  a  doubt, 
Sufficed  to  make  it  still  his  grief,  his  joy, 
To  think  he  had  a  child,  a  living  boy, 

Whom  you,  my  love ' 

'  His  child  is  six  foot  high, 
I've  kept  him  as  the  apple  of  my  eye,' 
Cried  she, '  he's  riding,  or  you'd  see  him  here. 
0  joy,  that  he  at  last  should  see  his  father  dear ! 
As  soon  as  he  comes  in  I'll  tell  him  all. 
And  on  his  father  he  shall  go  and  call.' 

'  And  you,'  she  said,  •  my  husband  will  you  see  ?  ' 

'  O  no,  it  is  not  possible  for  me. 
The  boy  I'll  send  this  very  afternoon. 
O  dear,  I  know  he  cannot  go  too  soon ; 
And  something  I  must  write,  to  write  will  do.' 
So  they  embraced  and  sadly  bade  adieu. 

The  boy  came  in,  his  father  went  and  saw ! 
We  will  not  wait  this  interview  to  draw ; 
Ere  long  returned,  and  to  his  mother  ran  : 
His  father  was  a  wonderful  fine  man, 
He  said,  and  looked  at  her ;  the  Lady,  too, 
Had  done  whatever  it  was  kind  to  do. 
He  loved  his  mother  more  than  he  could  say, 
But  if  she  wished,  he'd  with  his  father  stay. 
A  little  change  she  noticed  in  his  face, 
E'en  now  the  father's  influence  she  could  trace ; 
From  her  the  slight,  slight  severance  had  begun, 
But  simply  she  rejoiced  that  it  was  done. 
She  smiled  and  kissed  her  boy,  and  '  Long  ago, 
When  I  was  young,  I  loved  your  father  so. 
Together  now  we  had  been  living,  too, 
Only  the  ship  went  sooner  than  he  knew. 


MART  MAGNO.  347 

In  loving  him  you  will  be  loving  me : 
Father  and  mother  are  as  one,  yoa  see.' 

Her  letter  caught  him  on  the  following  day 
As  to  the  club  he  started  on  his  way. 
From  her  he  guessed,  the  hand  indeed  was  new  ; 
Back  to  his  room  he  went  and  read  it  through. 

'  I  know  not  how  to  write  and  dare  not  see ; 
But  it  will  take  a  load  of  grief  from  me  — 
0  !  what  a  load  —  that  you  at  last  should  know 
The  way  in  which  I  was  compelled  to  go. 
Wretched,  I  know,  and  yet  it  seems  'twas  more 
Cruel  and  wretched  than  I  knew  before  ; 
So  many  years  to  think  how  on  your  day 
Joyful  you'd  come,  and  found  me  flown  away. 
What  would  you  think  of  me,  what  would  you  say  ? 
O  love,  this  little  let  me  call  you  so ; 
What  other  name  to  use  I  do  not  know. 
0  let  me  think  that  by  your  side  I  sit, 
And  tell  it  you,  and  weep  a  little  bit, 
And  you  too  weep  with  me,  for  hearing  it. 
Alone  so  long  I've  borne  this  dreadful  weight ; 
Such  grief,  at  times  it  almost  turned  to  hate. 
0  let  me  think  you  sit  and  listening  long, 
Comfort  me  still,  and  say  I  wasn't  wrong, 
And  pity  me,  and  far,  far  hence  again 
Dismiss,  if  haply  any  yet  remain, 
Hard  thoughts  of  me  that  in  your  heart  have  lain. 
0  love !  to  hear  your  voice  I  dare  not  go ; 
But  let  me  trust  that  you  will  judge  me  so. 

'  I  think  no  sooner  were  you  gone  away, 
My  aunt  began  to  tell  me  of  some  pay, 
More  than  three  hundred  pounds  a-year  'twould  be, 
Which  you,  she  said,  would  lose  by  marrying  me. 
Was  this  a  thing  a  man  of  sense  would  do  ? 
Was  I  a  fool,  to  look  for  it  from  you  ? 
You  were  a  handsome  gentleman  and  kind, 
And  to  do  right  were  every  way  inclined, 
But  to  this  truth  I  must  submit  my  mind, 
You  would  not  marry.     "Speak  and  tell  me  true, 
Say,  has  he  ever  said  one  word  to  you 
That  meant  as  much  ?  "     0,  love,  I  knew  you  would. 
I've  read  it  in  your  eyes  so  kind  and  good, 
Although  you  did  not  speak,  I  understood. 


348  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Though  for  myself,  indeed,  I  sought  it  not, 

It  seemed  so  high,  so  undeserved  a  lot, 

But  for  the  child,  when  it  should  come,  I  knew  — 

O,  I  was  certain  —  what  you  meant  to  do. 

She  said,  "  We  quit  the  land,  will  it  be  right 

Or  kind  to  leave  you  for  a  single  night, 

Just  on  the  chance  that  he  will  come  down  here, 

And  sacrifice  three  hundred  pounds  a-year, 

And  all  his  hopes  and  prospects  fling  away, 

And  has  already  had  his  will,  as  one  may  say  ? 

Go  you  with  us,  and  find  beyond  the  seas, 

Men  by  the  score  to  choose  from,  if  you  please." 

I  said  my  will  and  duty  was  to  stay, 

Would  they  not  help  me  to  some  decent  way 

To  wait,  and  surely  near  was  now  the  day  ? 

Quite  they  refused ;  had  they  to  let  you  know 

Written,  I  asked,  to  say  we  were  to  go  ? 

They  told  me  yes ;  they  showed  a  letter,  too, 

Post-office  order  that  had  come  from  you. 

Alas,  I  could  not  read  or  write,  they  knew. 

I  think  they  meant  me,  though  they  did  not  say, 

To  think  you  wanted  me  to  go  away ; 

O,  love,  I'm  thankful  nothing  of  the  kind 

Ever  so  much  as  came  into  my  mind. 

'  To-morrow  was  the  day  that  would  not  fail ; 
For  Adelaide  the  vessel  was  to  sail. 
All  night  I  hoped  some  dreadful  wind  would  rise, 
And  lift  the  seas  and  rend  the  very  skies. 
All  night  I  lay  and  listened  hard  for  you. 
Twice  to  the  door  I  went,  the  bolt  I  drew. 
And  called  to  you ;  scarce  what  I  did  I  knew. 

'  Morning  grew  light,  the  house  was  emptied  clear ; 
The  ship  would  go,  the  boat  was  lying  near. 
They  had  my  money,  how  was  I  to  stay  ? 
Who  could  I  go  to,  when  they  went  away  ? 
Out  in  the  streets  I  could  not  lie,  you  know. 
O,  dear,  but  it  was  terrible  to  go. 
Yet,  yet  I  looked ;  I  do  not  know  Avhat  passed, 
I  think  they  took  and  carried  me  at  last. 
Twelve  hours  I  lay,  and  sobbed  in  my  distress ; 
But  in  the  night,  let  be  this  idleness, 
I  said,  I'll  bear  it  for  my  baby's  sake, 
Lest  of  my  going  mischief  it  should  take, 


MARI  MAG  NO.  349 

Advice  will  seek,  and  every  caution  use ; 
My  love  I've  lost  —  his  child  I  must  not  lose. 

*  How  oft  I  thought,  when  sailing  on  the  seas, 
Of  our  dear  journey  through  the  Hebrides, 
When  you  the  kindest  were  and  best  of  men  : 

0,  love,  I  did  not  love  you  right  till  then. 

O,  and  myself  how  willingly  I  blamed, 

So  simple  who  had  been,  and  was  ashamed, 

So  mindful  only  of  the  present  joy, 

When  you  had  anxious  cares  your  busy  mind  to  employ. 

Ah,  well,  I  said,  but  now  at  least  he's  free. 

He  will  not  have  to  lower  himself  for  me. 

He  will  not  lose  three  hundred  pounds  a-year. 

In  many  ways  my  love  has  cost  him  dear. 

'  Upon  the  passage,  great  was  my  delight, 
A  lady  taught  me  how  to  read  and  write. 
She  saw  me  much,  and  fond  of  me  she  grew, 
Only  I  durst  not  talk  to  her  of  you. 

*  We  had  a  quiet  time  upon  the  seas, 
And  reached  our  port  of  Adelaide  with  ease. 
At  Adelaide  my  lovely  baby  came. 
Philip,  he  took  his  father's  Christian  name. 
And  my  poor  maiden  surname,  to  my  shame. 
O,  but  I  little  cared,  I  loved  him  so, 

'Twas  such  a  joy  to  watch  and  see  him  grow. 

At  Adelaide  we  made  no  length  of  stay ; 

Our  friends  to  Melbourne  just  had  gone  away. 

We  followed  shortly  where  they  led  before. 

To  Melbourne  went,  and  flourished  more  and  more. 

My  aunt  and  uncle  both  are  buried  there ; 

I  closed  their  eyes,  and  I  was  left  their  heir. 

They  meant  me  well,  I  loved  them  for  their  care. 

*  Ten  years  ago  I  married  Robert ;  dear 
And  well  he  loved,  and  waited  many  a  year. 
Selfish  it  seemed  to  turn  from  one  so  true. 
And  I  of  course  was  desperate  of  you. 

I've  borne  him  children  six ;  we've  left  behind 
Three  little  ones  whom  soon  I  hope  to  find. 
To  my  dear  boy  he  ever  has  been  kind. 

*  Next  week  we  sail,  and  I  should  be  so  glad, 
Only  to  leave  my  boy  will  make  me  sad. 

But  yours  he  is  by  right  —  the  grief  I'll  bear, 
And  at  his  age,  more  easy  he  can  spare, 


350  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Perhaps,  a  mother's  than  a  father's  care. 
Indeed  I  think  him  like  his  father,  too ; 
He  will  be  happier,  probably,  with  you. 
'Tis  best,  I  know,  nor  will  he  quite  forget, 
Some  day  he'll  come  perhaps  and  see  his  mother  yet. 
'  0  heaven !  farewell  —  perhaps  I've  been  to  blame 
To  write  as  if  it  all  were  still  the  same. 
Farewell,  write  not.  —  I  will  not  seek  to  know 
Whether  you  ever  think  of  me  or  no.' 
0  love,  love,  love,  too  late !  the  tears  fell  down. 
He  dried  them  up  —  and  slowly  walked  to  town. 


To  bed  with  busy  thoughts ;  the  following  day 
Bore  us  ex]^)ectant  into  Boston  Bay  ; 
With  dome  and  steeple  on  the  yellow  skies, 
Upon  the  left  we  watched  with  curious  eyes 
The  Puritan  great  Mother  City  rise. 
Among  the  islets,  winding  in  and  round, 
The  great  ship  moved  to  her  appointed  ground. 
We  bade  adieu,  shook  hands  and  went  ashore  : 
I  and  my  friend  have  seen  our  friends  no  more. 


SONGS  IN  ABSENCE.^ 


Farewell,  farewell !    Her  vans  the  vessel  tries, 
His  iron  might  the  potent  engine  plies ; 
Haste,  winged  words,  and  ere  'tis  useless,  tell, 
Farewell,  farewell,  yet  once  again,  farewell. 

The  docks,  the  streets,  the  houses  past  us  fly. 
Without  a  strain  the  great  ship  inarches  by ; 
Ye  fleeting  banks  take  up  the  words  we  tell, 
And  say  for  us  yet  once  again,  farewell. 

The  waters  widen  —  on  without  a  strain 

The  strong  ship  moves  upon  the  open  main ; 

She  knows  the  seas,  she  hears  the  true  waves  swell, 

She  seems  to  say  farewell,  again  farewell. 

The  billows  whiten  and  the  deep  seas  heave ; 
Fly  once  again,  sweet  words,  to  her  I  leave, 
With  winds  that  blow  return,  and  seas  that  swell. 
Farewell,  farewell,  say  once  again,  farewell. 

Fresh  in  my  face  and  rippling  to  my  feet 

The  winds  and  waves  an  answer  soft  repeat, 

In  sweet,  sweet  words  far  brought  they  seem  to  tell, 

Farewell,  farewell,  yet  once  again,  farewell. 

Night  gathers  fast ;  adieu,  thou  fading  shore ! 
The  land  we  look  for  next  must  lie  before ; 
Hence,  foolish  tears !  weak  thoughts,  no  more  rebel, 
Farewell,  farewell,  a  last,  a  last  farewell. 

1  These  songs  were  composed  either  durinji  the  writer's  voyage 
across  the  Atlantic  iu  1852,  or  during  his  residence  iu  America. 

351 


352  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Yet  not,  indeed,  ah  not  till  more  than  sea 
And  more  than  space  divide  my  love  and  me, 
Till  more  than  waves  and  winds  between  us  swell, 
Farewell,  a  last,  indeed,  a  last  farewell. 


Ye  flags  of  Piccadilly, 

Where  I  posted  up  and  down, 

And  wished  myself  so  often 

Well  away  from  you  and  town,  — 

Are  the  people  walking  quietly 

And  steady  on  their  feet, 
Cabs  and  omnibuses  plying 

Just  as  usual  in  the  street  ? 

Do  the  houses  look  as  upright 

As  of  old  they  used  to  be, 
And  does  nothing  seem  affected 

By  the  pitching  of  the  sea  ? 

Through  the  Green  Park  iron  railings 
Do  the  quick  pedestrians  pass  ? 

Are  the  little  children  playing 

Round  the  plane-tree  in  the  grass  ? 

This  squally  wild  north-wester 
With  which  our  vessel  fights. 

Does  it  merely  serve  with  you  to 
Carry  up  some  paper  kites  ? 

Ye  flags  of  Piccadilly, 

Which  I  hated  so,  I  vow 
I  could  wish  with  all  my  heart 

You  were  underneath  me  now! 


Come  home,  come  home !  and  Avhere  is  home  for  me, 
Whose  ship  is  driving  o'er  the  trackless  sea  ? 
To  the  frail  bark  here  plunging  on  its  way, 
To  the  wild  waters,  shall  T  turn  and  say 
To  the  plunging  bark,  or  to  the  salt  sea  foam, 
You  are  my  home  ? 


SONGS  IN  ABSENCE.  353 

Fields  once  I  walked  in,  faces  once  I  knew, 
Familiar  things  so  old  my  heart  believed  them  true, 
These  far,  far  back,  behind  me  lie,  before 
The  dark  clouds  mutter,  and  fhe  deep  seas  roar, 
And  speak  to  them  that  'neath  and  o'er  them  roam 
No  words  of  home. 

Beyond  the  clouds,  beyond  the  waves  that  i-oar, 
There  may  indeed,  or  may  not  be,  a  shore. 
Where  fields  as  green,  and  hands  and  hearts  as  true, 
The  old  forgotten  semblance  may  renew, 
And  offer  exiles  driven  far  o'er  the  salt  sea  foam 
Another  home. 

But  toil  and  pain  must  wear  out  many  a  day, 
And  days  bear  weeks,  and  weeks  bear  months  away. 
Ere,  if  at  all,  the  weary  traveller  hear, 
With  accents  whispered  in  his  wayworn  ear, 
A  voice  he  dares  to  listen  to,  say,  Come 
To  thy  true  home. 

Come  home,  come  home !  and  where  a  home  hath  he 
Whose  ship  is  driving  o'er  the  driving  sea  ? 
Through  clouds  that  mutter,  and  o'er  waves  that  roar. 
Say,  shall  we  find,  or  shall  we  not,  a  shore 
That  is,  as  is  not  ship  or  ocean  foam. 

Indeed  our  home  ? 
1852. 


Green  fields  of  England !  wheresoe'er 
Across  this  watery  waste  we  fare. 
Your  image  at  our  hearts  we  bear. 
Green  fields  of  England,  everywhere. 

Sweet  eyes  in  England,  I  must  flee 
Past  where  the  waves'  last  confines  be, 
Ere  your  loved  smile  I  cease  to  see. 
Sweet  eyes  in  England,  dear  to  me. 

Dear  home  in  England,  safe  and  fast 
If  but  in  thee  my  lot  lie  cast, 


354  C LOUGH'S  POEMS.      - 

The  past  shall  seem  a  nothing  past 
To  thee,  dear  home,  if  won  at  last ; 
Dear  home  in  England,  won  at  last. 
1852. 


Come  back,  come  back,  behold  with  straining  mast 
And  swelling  sail,  behold  her  steaming  fast ; 
With  one  new  sun  to  see  her  voyage  o'er, 
With  morning  light  to  touch  her  native  shore. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back,  while  westward  labouring  by, 
With  sailless  yards,  a  bare  black  hulk  we  fly. 
See  how  the  gale  we  fight  with  sweeps  her  back. 
To  our  lost  home,  on  our  forsaken  track. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back,  across  the  flying  foam, 
We  hear  faint  far-off  voices  call  us  home, 
Come  back,  ye  seem  to  say ;  ye  seek  in  vain ; 
We  went,  we  sought,  and  homeward  turned  again. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  ;  and  whither  back  or  why  ? 
To  fan  quenched  hopes,  forsaken  schemes  to  try ; 
Walk  the  old  fields ;  pace  the  familiar  street ; 
Dream  with  the  idlers,  with  the  bards  compete. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back ;  and  whither  and  for  what  ? 
To  finger  idly  some  old  Gordian  knot. 
Unskilled  to  sunder,  and  too  weak  to  cleave, 
And  with  much  toil  attain  to  half-believe. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  ;  yea  back,  indeed,  do  go 
Sighs  panting  tliick,  and  tears  that  want  to  flow; 
Fond  fluttering  hopes  upraise  their  useless  wings, 
And  wishes  idly  struggle  in  the  strings ; 
Come  back,  come  back. 


SONGS  IN  ABSENCE.  355 

Come  back,  come  back,  more  eager  than  the  breeze, 
The  flying  fancies  sweep  across  the  seas, 
And  lighter  far  than  ocean's  flying  foam, 
The  heart's  fond  message  hurries  to  its  home. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  ! 

Back  flies  the  foam  ;  the  hoisted  flag  streams  back ; 

The  long  smoke  wavers  on  the  homeward  track. 

Back  fly  with  winds  things  which  the  winds  obey. 

The  strong  ship  follows  its  appointed  way. 

1852.  

Some  future  day  when  what  is  now  is  not. 

When  all  old  faults  and  follies  are  forgot. 

And  thoughts  of  difference  passed  like  dreams  away. 

We'll  meet  again,  upon  some  future  day. 

When  all  that  hindered,  all  that  vexed  our  love, 
As  tall  rank  weeds  will  climb  the  blade  above, 
When  all  but  it  has  yielded  to  decay. 
We'll  meet  again  upon  some  future  day. 

When  we  have  proved,  each  on  his  course  alone. 
The  wider  world,  and  learnt  what's  now  unknown, 
Have  made  life  clear,  and  worked  out  each  a  way. 
We'll  meet  again,  —  we  shall  have  much  to  say. 

With  happier  mood,  and  feelings  born  anew. 
Our  boyhood's  bygone  fancies  we'll  review. 
Talk  o'er  old  talks,  play  as  we  used  to  play. 
And  meet  again,  on  many  a  future  day. 

Some  day,  which  oft  our  hearts  shall  yearn  to  see, 
In  some  far  year,  though  distant  yet  to  be, 
Shall  we  indeed,  —  ye  winds  and  waters,  say !  — 
Meet  yet  again,  upon  some  future  day  ? 
1852. 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


i^ 


356  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

On  «unny  noons  upon  tlie  deck's  smooth  face, 
Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace ; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north-westers  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave ! 
The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 

And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 

Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

1852. 


The  mighty  ocean  rolls  and  raves. 
To  part  i^  with  its  angry  waves ; 
But  arch  on  arch  from  shore  to  shore. 
In  a  vast  fabric  reaching  o'er. 

With  careful  labours  daily  wrought 
By  steady  hope  and  tender  thought, 
The  wide  and  weltering  waste  above  — 
Our  hearts  have  bridged  it  Avith  their  love. 

There  fond  anticipations  fly 
To  rear  the  growing  structure  high. 
Dear  memories  upon  either  side 
Combine  to  make  it  large  and  wide. 

There,  happy  fancies  day  by  day, 
New  courses  sedulously  lay ; 
There  soft  solicitudes,  sweet  fears, 
And  doubts  accumulate,  and  tears. 

While  the  pure  purpose  of  the  soul, 
To  form  of  many  ])arts  a  whole. 
To  make  them  strong  and  hold  them  true, 
From  end  to  end,  is  carried  through. 


SONGS  IN  ABSENCE.  357 

Then  when  the  waters  war  between, 
Upon  the  masonry  unseen, 
Secure  and  swift,  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  silent  footfall  travelling  o'er, 

Our  sundered  spirits  come  and  go. 
Hither  and  thither,  to  and  fro. 
Pass  and  repass,  now  linger  near. 
Now  part,  anew  to  reappear. 

With  motions  of  a  glad  surprise. 
We  meet  each  other's  wondering  eyes, 
At- work,  at  play,  when  people  talk. 
And  when  we  sleep,  and  when  we  walk. 

Each  dawning  day  my  eyelids  see 
You  come,  methinks,  across  to  me, 
And  I,  at  every  hour  anew, 
Could  dream  I  travelled  o'er  to  you. 
1853. 


That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind 
Is  true  of  most  we  leave  behind ; 
It  is  not  sure,  nor  can  be  true. 
My  own  and  only  love,  of  you. 

They  were  my  friends,  'twas  sad  to  part ; 
Almost  a  tear  began  to  start ; 
But  yet  as  things  run  on  they  find 
That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind. 

For  men,  that  will  not  idlers  be. 
Must  lend  their  hearts  to  things  they  see ; 
And  friends  who  leave  them  far  behind. 
When  out  of  sight  are  out  of  mind. 

I  blame  it  not ;  I  think  that  when 
The  cold  and  silent  meet  again, 
Kind  hearts  will  yet  as  erst  be  kind, 
Twas  '  out  of  sight,'  was  *  out  of  mind.' 


358  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

I  knew  it  when  we  parted,  well, 
I  knew  it,  but  was  loth  to  tell ; 
I  felt  before,  what  now  I  find, 
That  'out  of  sight'  is  'out  of  mind.' 

That  friends,  however  friends  they  were, 
Still  deal  with  things  as  things  occur, 
And  that,  excepting  for  the  blind. 
What's  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind. 

But  love,  the  poets  say,  is  blind  ^ 
So  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind 
Need  not,  nor  will,  I  think,  be  true. 
My  own  and  only  love,  of  you. 
1863. 


Were  you  with  me  or  I  with  you. 
There's  nought,  methinks,  I  might  not  do ; 
Could  venture  here,  and  venture  there. 
And  never  fear,  nor  ever  care. 

To  things  before,  and  things  behind. 
Could  turn  my  thoughts,  and  turn  my  mind. 
On  this  and  that,  day  after  day. 
Could  dare  to  throw  myself  away. 

Secure,  when  all  was  o'er,  to  find 
My  proper  thought,  my  perfect  mind, 
And  unimpaired  receive  anew 
My  own  and  better  self  in  you. 
1863. 


Am  I  with  you,  or  you  with  me  ? 

Or  in  some  blessed  place  above, 
Where  neither  lands  divide  nor  sea. 

Are  we  united  in  our  love  ? 

Oft  while  in  longing  here  I  lie. 

That  wasting  ever  still  endures ; 
My  soul  out  from  me  seems  to  fly, 

And  half-way,  somewhere,  meet  with  yours. 


SONGS  IN  ABSENCE.  359 

Somewhere  —  but  where  I  cannot  guess  — 
Beyond,  may  be,  the  bound  of  space, 

The  liberated  spirits  press 

And  meet,  bless  heaven,  and  embrace. 

It  seems  not  either  here  nor  there, 

Somewhere  between  us  up  above, 
A  region  of  a  clearer  air, 

The  dwelling  of  a  purer  love. 
1852. 


Were  I  with  you,  or  you  with  me, 
My  love,  how  happy  should  we  be ; 
Day  after  day  it  is  sad  cheer 
To  have  you  there,  while  I  am  here. 

My  darling's  face  I  cannot  see, 
My  darling's  voice  is  mute  for  me, 
My  fingers  vainly  seek  the  hair 
Of  her  that  is  not  here,  but  there. 

In  a  strange  land,  to  her  unknown, 
I  sit  and  think  of  her  alone  ; 
And  in  that  happy  chamber  where 
We  sat,  she  sits,  nor  has  me  there. 

Yet  still  the  happy  thought  recurs 
That  she  is  mine,  as  I  am  hers. 
That  she  is  there,  as  I  am  here, 
And  loves  me,  whether  far  or  near. 

The  mere  assurance  that  she  lives 
And  loves  me,  full  contentment  gives; 
I  need  not  doubt,  despond,  or  fear, 
For,  she  is  there,  and  I  am  here. 
1852. 


Were  you  with  me,  or  I  with  you. 
There's  nought  methinks  I  could  not  do; 
And  nothing  that,  for  your  dear  sake, 
I  might  not  dare  to  undertake. 


360  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

With  thousands  standing  by  as  fit, 
More  keen,  perhaps  more  needing  it, 
To  be  the  first  some  job  to  spy. 
And  jump  and  call  out,  Here  am  I ! 

O  for  one's  miserable  self 
To  ask  a  pittance  of  the  pelf. 
To  claim,  however  small,  a  share, 
Which  other  men  might  think  so  fair : 

It  was  not  worth  it !  a  first  time 
A  thought  upon  it  seemed  a  crime ; 
To  stoop  and  pick  the  dirty  pence, 
A  taint  upon  one's  innocence. 

My  own !  with  nothing  sordid,  base, 
Or  mean,  we  would  our  love  disgrace ; 
Yet  something  I  methinks  could  do. 
Were  you  with  me,  or  I  with  you : 

Some  misconstruction  would  sustain ; 
Count  some  humiliation  gain  ; 
Make  unabashed  a  righteous  claim. 
And  profess  merit  without  shame : 

Apply  for  service ;  day  by  day 
Seek  honest  work  for  honest  pay. 
Without  a  fear  by  any  toil 
The  over-cleanly  hand  to  soil : 

Secure  in  safety  to  return. 
And  every  pettiness  unlearn ; 
And  unimpaired  still  find  anew 
My  own  and  better  self  in  you. 


0  SHIP,  ship,  ship. 

That  travellest  over  the  sea. 
What  are  the  tidings,  I  pray  thee. 

Thou  bearest  liither  to  me  ? 


SONGS  IN  ABSENCE.  361 

Are  they  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
That  shall  make  me  seem  to  see 

The  sweet  lips  softly  moving 
And  whispering  love  to  me  ? 

Or  are  they  of  trouble  and  grief, 
Estrangement,  sorrow,  and  doubt, 

To  turn  into  torture  my  hopes. 
And  drive  me  from  Paradise  out  ? 

0  ship,  ship,  ship, 

That  comest  over  the  sea. 
Whatever  it  be  thou  bringest. 

Come  quickly  with  it  to  me. 
1853. 


r 


\ 


ESSAYS  IN  CLASSICAL  METRES. 

TRANSLATIONS  OF  ILIAD. 

(I.  1-32.) 

Goddess,  the  anger  sing  of  the  Pelean  Achilles, 
Fatal  beginning  of  griefs  nnnnmbered  to  the  Achaeans ; 
Many  valiant  souls  untimely  it  hurried  to  Hades, 
And  the  heroes  left  themselves  of  dogs  to  be  eaten 
And  of  ravenous  birds  —  till   Zeus's  plan   was   accom- 
plished — 
From  the  day  when  first  contention  arose  to  dissever 
Atrides  the  King  and  the  godlike  hero  Achilles. 

What  divinity  thus  incited  them  to  contention  ?  — 
Zeus  and  Leto's  son ;  who,  in  anger  with  A  gamemnon, 
Sent  a  deadly  disease  on  the  host,  destroying  the  people, 
On  account  of  the  wrong  the  King  to  his  worshipper 

offered, 
Chryses,  who  had  come  to  the  hollow  ships  of  Achaia, 
To  recover  his  daughter,  with  gifts  of  costly  redemption. 
Carrying  in  his  hands  the  wreaths  of  the  archer  Apollo 
Set  on  a  golden  staff  —  beseeching  all  the  Achseans, 
And  the  Atridae  in  chief,  the  two  in  command  of   the 
nations : 
*  Ye,  Atreus'   sons,   and  other  well-greaved  Achaian 
heroes. 
May  the  gods,  who  live  in  Olympian  houses,  accord  you 
Capture  of  Priam's  town  and  safe  to  return  to  Achaia, 
But  liberate  to  me  my  child  and  take  the  redemption  — 
Fearing  Zeus's  son,  the  far-death-dealing  Apollo.' 

Then  the  Achseans  all  with  acclamation  assented. 
Honour  to  show  to  the  priest,  and  take  the  costly  redemp- 
tion; 

363 


364  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Only  to  Atrides  Agamemnon  it  was  unpleasing, 
Sternly  who  dismissed  him  with  contumelious  answer  : 
*  Old  man,  let  me  not,  by  the  hollow  ships  of  Achaia 
Lingering  find  you  now,  or  henceforth  ever  appearing, 
Lest  to  defend  you  fail  the  staff  and  wreaths  of  Apollo. 
Her  do  I  not  release  until  old  age  come  upon  her. 
In  my  house  in  the  land  of  Argos,  far  from  her  country, 
Stepping  at  the  loom  and  in  the  chamber  attending. 
Go,  and  trouble  me  not,  that  your  return  be  the  saier.' 


(I.  121-218.) 

And  replying,  said  godlike,  swift-footed  Achilles : 

'  Atrides,  our  chief,  as  in  rank,  so  in  love  of  possessions, 

Say,  in  what  way  shall  the  noble  Achseans  find  you  a 

present? 
Little  we  yet  have  gained  the  general  stock  to  replenish, 
Distributed  were  all  the  spoils  we  took  from  the  cities. 
And  to  recall  our  gifts  and  reapportion  befits  not  — 
Yield  you  the  maiden  to-day  to  the  god,  and  we,  the 

Achseans, 
Three  or  four  times  over  will  compensate  it,  if  ever 
Zeus  the  capture  accord  of  the  well-walled  Ilian  city.' 
And  with  words  of  reply  the  King  Agamemnon  ad- 
dressed him : 
*  Think  not,  great  as  you  are,  0  god-resembling  Achilles 
Thus  to  dissimulate  and  evade  me  with  a  profession  ; 
Is  it  that  you  desire  to  enjoy  your  prize,  and  to  let  me 
Sit  empty-handed  here,  and  mine  you  bid  me  surrender  — 
Doubtless,  if  the  noble  Achseans  find  me  another 
Suitable  to  my  wants  and  answerable  in  value ; 
But,  if  they  do  not  give,  myself  will  mak6  ray  election  — 
Yours,  or  that,  if  I  please,  of  Ajax  or  of  Ulysses, 
I  for  my  own  will  take,  and  leave  the  loser  lamenting. 
At  a  suitable  time  this,  after,  will  we  determine  ; 
Now  proceed  we  to  haul  a  swift  ship  into  the  water. 
Choose  the  rowers  to  take  her,  and  send  the  cattle  aboard 

her 
For  sacrifice,  and  bring  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Chryses 
Also  on  board,  and  appoint  some  prudent  chief  to  convey 

her  — 
Ajax  shall  it  be,  or  Idomeneus,  or  Ulysses  ? 


ESSAYS  IN  CLASSICAL  METRES.  365 

Or  will  Pelides,  incomparable  of  heroes, 
Go,  and  with  holy  rite  appease  the  wrath  of  Apollo  ? ' 
And  with  a  frown  swift-footed  Achilles  eyed  him,  and 
answered : 
'  0  me !  clothed-iipon  with  impudence,  greedy-hearted, 
How  shall  any  Achaean  again  be  willing  to  serve  you, 
Make  any  expedition,  or  hglit  in  battle  to  help  you  ? 
Certainly  not  upon  any  account  of  the  Troiau  horsemen 
Came  I  hither  to  fight ;  they  never  gave  me  occasion, 
Never  carried  away  any  cattle  of  mine,  any  horses, 
Nor  in  Phthia  ever,  the  rich  land,  feeder  of  people, 
Devastated  the  fruit ;  since  numerous,  to  divide  them. 
Mountains  shadowy  lie,  and  a  sea's  tumultuous  water : 
To  attend  thee  we  came,  on  thy  effrontery  waiting, 
Reparation  to  take  of  the  l^rojans  for  Menelaus, 
And  thy  unblushing  self.     All  which  you  little  remember, 
And  can  threaten  to-day  of  my  reward  to  deprive  me. 
Dearly  with  labour  earned,  and  given  me  by  the  Achseans. 
Do  I  ever  receive  any  gift  your  gifts  to  compare  with, 
When  the  Achseans  sack  any  wealthy  town  of  the  Trojans  ? 
Truly  the  larger  part  of  the  busy,  hurrying  warfare 
My  hands  have  to  discharge ;  but,  in  the  day  of  division, 
Yours  is  the  ample  share,  and  I,  content  with  a  little, 
Thankfully  turn  to  my  ships,  well  wearied  out  with  the 

fighting. 
Now  to  Phthia  I  go  —  far  wiser  for  me  to  do  so. 
Home  with  my  hollow  ships  to  travel,  than  for  another 
Accumulate  riches  to  be  requited  with  insult.' 

And  replying,  said  the  king  of  men,  Agamemnon : 
*Go,  if  to  go  be  your  wish;  I  keep  you  not — do  not  ask 

you 
For  my  honour  to  stay ;  I  have  others  here  to  support  it, 
Who  —  and  Zeus  above  all,  the  Counsellor  —  will  uphold 

me. 
You  are  the  hatefullest  to  me  of  the  Zeus-fed  princes. 
Lover  for  evermore  of  brawl  and  battle  and  discord. 
Strong  if  you  are,  your  strength  was  by  some  deity  given. 
Home  with  your  hollow  ships,  and  with  your  people  re- 
turning 
Order  the  Myrmidonians :  expect  not  me  to  regard  you, 
Or  to  observe  your  wrath.     I  advertise  you  beforehand  — 
As  Chryseida  Phoebus  Apollo  hath  bid  me  surrender, 
I  in  a  ship  of  my  own  will  with  my  people  remit  her 


366  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Home,  and  the  beautiful-cheeked  Briseida  then  to  replace 

her 
Out  of  your  tent,  your  prize,  will  carry ;  an  argument  to 

you 
How  much  greater  I  am  than  yourself,  and  a  warning  to 

others 
Not  to  oppose  my  will  and  talk  with  me  as  an  equal.' 

So  said  he,  and  pain  seized  Pelides,  and  in  the  bosom 
Under  his  hairy  breast  two  purposes  he  divided. 
Either,  from  his  thigh  the  glittering  blade  unsheathing. 
To  put  aside  the  rest  and  straightway  kill  Agamemnon, 
Or  to  repress  his  wrath  and  check  himself  in  his  anger. 
With  the  purposes  yet  conflicting  thus  in  his  bosom. 
From  the  sheath  the  huge  sword  was  issuing  out,  when 

Athena 
Came  from  heaven :  the  goddess,  the  white-armed  Hera, 

desired  it. 
Solicitous  for  the  good  of  the  one  alike  and  the  other. 
Standing   behind,  by   the   yellow   hair   she   drew   back 

Achilles, 
Visible  only  to  him^  of  the  rest  to  no  one  apparent ; 
And  with  wonder  seized  he  turned,  and  knew  in  a  moment 
Pallas  Athenaea,  with  dreadful  eyes  looking  at  him ; 
And  he  opened  his  lips  with  winged  words  and  addressed 

her: 
'  Wherefore  art  thou  come,  0  child  of  the  segis-bearer ; 
Was  it  the  fury  to  see  of  Atrides  Agamemnon  ? 
Lo,  I  declare  it  now,  and  you  will  see  it  accomplished. 
His  injurious  acts  will  bring  his  death-blow  upon  him.' 

And  replying,  said  the  blue-eyed  goddess,  Athena : 
'  To  repress  I  came,  if  practicable,  your  anger, 
Out  of  heaven,  —  the  goddess,  the  white-armed  Hera, 

desired  me. 
Solicitous  for  the  good  of  the  one  alike  and  the  other. 
Abstain  from  violence,  put  back  the  sword  in  the  scab- 
bard, 
Let  opprobrious  words,  if  necessary,  requite  him ; 
For  I  declare  it  now,  and  you  will  see  it  accomplished. 
Three  times  as  many  gifts  will  soon,  as  costly,  be  sent 

you 
In  reparation  of  this ;  be  ruled  by  us  to  be  patient.' 

And  replying,  spoke  and  said  swift-footed  Achilles : 
*  Unto  admonition  of  you  two  given,  0  goddess. 


ESSAYS  IN  CLASSICAL  METRES.  367 

Even  the  greatly  incensed  should  yield ;  'tis  well  to  obey 

you; 
Who  to  the  voice  of  the  gods  is  obedient,  they  will  assist 

him.' 


ELEGIACS. 


From  thy  far  sources,  'mid  mountains  airily  climbing, 

Pass  to  the  rich  lowland,  thou  busy  sunny  river ; 
Murmuring  once,  dimpling,  pellucid,  limpid,  abundant, 

Deepening  now,  widening,  swelling,  a  lordly  river. 
Through  woodlands  steering,  with  branches  waving  above 
thee, 
Through  the  meadows  sinuous,  wandering  irriguous ; 
Towns,  hamlets  leaving,  towns  by  thee,  bridges  across 
thee. 
Pass  to  palace  garden,  pass  to  cities  populous. 
Murmuring  once,  dimpling,  'mid  woodlands  wandering 
idly, 
Now  with  mighty  vessels  loaded,  a  mighty  river. 
Pass  to  the  great  waters,  though  tides  may  seem  to  resist 
thee. 
Tides  to  resist  seeming,  quickly  will  lend  thee  passage. 
Pass  to  the  dark  waters  that  roaring  wait  to  receive 
thee; 
Pass  them  thou  wilt  not,  thou  busy  sunny  river. 

Freshwater,  1861. 

II. 

Tbunks  the  forest  yielded  with  gums  ambrosial  oozing, 

Boughs  with  apples  laden  beautiful,  Hesperian, 
Golden,  odoriferous,  perfume  exhaling  about  them, 

Orbs  in  a  dark  umbrage  luminous  and  radiant ; 
To  the  palate  grateful,  more  luscious  were  not  in  Eden, 

Or  in  that  fabled  garden  of  Alcinoiis ; 
Out  of  a  dark  umbrage  sounds  also  musical  issued. 

Birds  their  sweet  transports  uttering  in  melody : 
Thrushes  clear  piping,  wood-pigeons  cooing,  arousing 

Loudly  the  nightingale,  loudly  the  sylvan  echoes ; 
Waters  transpicuous  flowed  under,  flowed  to  the  list'ning 

Ear  with  a  soft  murmur,  softly  soporiferous ; 


368  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Nor,  with  ebon  locks  too,  there  wanted,  circling,  attentive 
Unto  the  sweet  fluting,  girls,  of  a  swarthy  shepherd ; 

Over  a  sunny  level  their  flocks  are  lazily  feeding, 
They  of  Amor  musing  rest  in  a  leafy  cavern. 

1861. 


ALCAICS. 


So  spake  the  voice  :  and  as  with  a  single  life 
Instinct,  the  whole  mass,  fierce,  irretainable, 
Down  on  that  unsuspecting  host  swept ; 
Down,  with  the  fury  of  winds,  that  all  night 
Upbrimming,  sapping  slowly  the  dyke,  at  dawn 
Fall  through  the  breach  o'er  holmstead  and  harvest ;  and 
Heard  roll  a  deluge :  while  the  milkmaid 
Trips  i'  the  dew,  and  remissly  guiding 
Morn's  first  uneven  furrow,  the  farmer's  boy 
Dreams  out  his  dream  ;  so,  over  the  multitude 
Safe-tented,  uncontrolled  and  uncon- 
trollably sped  the  Avenger's  fury. 


ACT.^ON.^ 


Over  a  mountain  slope  with  lentisk,  and  with  abounding 
Arbutus,  and  the  red  oak  overtufted,  'mid  a  noontide 
Now  glowing  fervidly,  the  Leto-born,  the  divine  one, 
Artemis,  Arcadian  wood-rover,  alone,  hunt-weary. 
Unto  a  dell  cent'ring  many  streamlets  her  foot  unerring 
Had  guided.     Platanus  with  fig-tree  shaded  a  hollow, 
Shaded  a  waterfall,  where  pellucid  yet  abundant 
Streams  from  perpetual  full-flowing  sources  a  current : 
Lower  on  either  bank  in  sunshine  flowered  the  oleanders : 
Plenteous  under  a  rock  green  herbage  here  to  the  margin 
Grew   with   white   poplars   overcrowning.     She   thither 

arrived, 
Unloosening  joyfully  the  vest  enfolded  upon  her. 
Swift  her  divine  shoulders  discovering,  swiftly  revealing 
Her  maidenly  bosom  and  all  her  beauty  beneath  it, 

1  Passages  of  the  second  letter  of  Parepidemus  (vol.  i.  pp.  400,401) 
illiistrate  the  theory  which  Mr.  (;i()iit;h  liast-arried  into  practice  iu  these 
hexameters  as  well  as  in  the  Trauslatiuus  from  the  Iliad. 


ESSAYS  IN   CLASSICAL  METRES.  369 

To  the  river  water  overflowing  to  receive  her 
Yielded  her  ambrosial  nakedness.     But  with  an  instant 
Conscious,  with  the  instant  th'  immortal  terrific  anger 
Flew  to  the  guilty  doer :  that  moment,  where  amid  amply- 
Concealing  plane-leaves  he  th'  opportunity  pursued, 
Long  vainly,  possessed,  unwise,  Actseon,  of  hunters, 
Hapless  of  Arcadian,  and  most  misguided  of  hunters, 
Knew  the  divine  mandate,  knew  fate  directed  upon  him. 
He,  to  the  boughs  crouching,  with  dreadful  joy  the  de- 
sired one 
Had  viewed  descending,  viewed  as  in  a  dream,  disarraying, 
And  the  unclad  shoulders  awestruck,  awestruck  let  his 

eyes  see 
The  maidenly  bosom,  but  not  —  dim  fear  fell  upon  them  — 
Not  more  had  witnessed.     Not,  therefore,  less  the  forest 

through 
Ranging,  their  master  ceasing  thenceforth  to  remember. 
With  the  instant  together  came  trooping,  as  to  devour  him 
His  dogs  from  the  ambush.  —  Transformed  suddenly  be- 
fore them. 
He  fled,  an  antlered  stag,  wild  with  terror  to  the  mountain. 
She,  the  liquid  stream  in,  her  limbs  carelessly  reclining, 
The  flowing  waters  collected  grateful  about  her. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


COME,  POET,  COME!» 

Come,  Poet,  come ! 
A  thousand  labourers  ply  their  task, 
And  what  it  tends  to  scarcely  ask, 
And  trembling  thinkers  on  the  brink 
Shiver,  and  know  not  how  to  think. 
To  tell  the  purport  of  their  pain. 
And  what  our  silly  joys  contain ; 
In  lasting  lineaments  pourtray 
The  substance  of  the  shadowy  day ; 
Our  real  and  inner  deeds  rehearse, 
And  make  our  meaning  clear  in  verse : 
Come,  Poet,  come !  for  but  in  vain 
We  do  the  work  or  feel  the  pain. 
And  gather  up  the  seeming  gain. 
Unless  before  the  end  thou  come 
To  take,  ere  they  are  lost,  their  sum. 

Come,  Poet,  come ! 
To  give  an  utterance  to  the  dumb. 
And  make  vain  babblers  silent,  come; 
A  thousand  dupes  point  here  and  there. 
Bewildered  by  the  show  and  glare ; 
And  wise  men  half  have  learned  to  doubt 
Whether  we  are  not  best  without. 
Come,  Poet ;  both  but  wait  to  see 
Their  error  proved  to  them  in  thee. 

1  A  great  proportion  of  the  Poems  described  as  Miscellaneous  have, 
like  some  included  in  previous  divisions,  been  brought  together  from 
rough  copies  and  unfinished  manuscripts.  Fragmentary  and  imperfect 
as  they  are,  they  yet  are  so  characteristic  of  their  writer  that  they  have 
been  placed  here  along  with  others  more  finished. 

371 


372  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Come,  Poet,  come ! 

In  vain  I  seem  to  call.     And  yet 

Think  not  the  living  times  forget. 

Ages  of  heroes  fought  and  fell 

That  Homer  in  the  end  might  tell ; 

O'er  grovelling  generations  past 

Upstood  the  Doric  fane  at  last ; 

And  countless  hearts  on  countless  years 

Had  wasted  thoughts,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

Rude  laughter  and  unmeaning  tears ; 

Ere  England  Shakespeare  saw,  or  Rome 

The  pure  perfection  of  her  dome. 

Others,  I  doubt  not,  if  not  we, 

The  issue  of  our  toils  shall  see ; 

Young  children  gather  as  their  own 

The  harvest  that  the  dead  had  sown, 

The  dead  forgotten  and  unknown. 


THE  DREAM  LAND. 


To  think  that  men  of  former  days 
In  naked  truth  deserved  the  praise 
Which,  fain  to  have  in  flesh  and  blood 
An  image  of  imagined  good, 
Poets  have  sung  and  men  received. 
And  all  too  glad  to  be  deceived, 
Most  plastic  and  most  inexact. 
Posterity  has  told  for  fact ;  — 
To  say  what  was,  was  not  as  we, 
This  also  is  a  vanity. 

II. 

Ere  Agamemnon,  warriors  were. 
Ere  Helen,  beauties  equalling  her. 
Brave  ones  and  fair,  whom  no  one  knows, 
And  brave  or  fair  as  these  or  those. 
The  commonplace  whom  daily  we 
In  our  dull  streets  and  houses  see, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  373 

To  think  of  other  movild  than  these 
Were  Cato,  Solon,  Socrates, 
Or  Mahomet  or  Confutze, 
This  also  is  a  vanity. 


Hannibal,  Csesar,  Charlemain, 
And  he  before,  who  back  on  Spain 
Repelled  the  fierce  inundant  Moor ; 
Godfrey,  St.  Louis,  wise  and  pure, 
Washington,  Cromwell,  John,  and  Paul, 
Columbus,  Luther,  one  and  all, 
Go  mix  them  up,  the  false  and  true, 
With  Sindbad,  Crusoe,  or  St.  Preux, 
And  say  as  he  was,  so  was  he, 
This  also  is  a  vanity. 

rv. 

Say  not :  Behold  it  here  or  there, 
Or  on  the  earth,  or  in  the  air. 
That  better  thing  than  can  be  seen 
Is  neither  now  nor  e'er  has  been ; 
It  is  not  in  this  land  or  that. 
But  in  a  place  we  soon  are  at. 
Where  all  can  seek  and  some  can  find, 
Where  hope  is  liberal,  fancy  kind. 
And  what  we  wish  for  we  can  see, 
Which  also  is  a  vanity. 


IN   THE  DEPTHS. 

It  is  not  sweet  content,  be  sure. 

That  moves  the  nobler  Muse  to  song. 

Yet  when  could  truth  come  whole  and  pure 
From  hearts  that  inly  writhe  with  wrong  ? 

'Tis  not  the  calm  and  peaceful  breast 
That  sees  or  reads  the  problem  true ; 

They  only  know  on  whom  't  has  prest 
Too  hard  to  hope  to  solve  it  too. 


374  C LOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Our  ills  are  worse  than  at  their  ease 
These  blameless  happy  souls  suspect, 

They  only  study  the  disease, 
Alas,  who  live  not  to  detect. 


DARKNESS. 


But  that  from  slow  dissolving  pomps  of  dawn 
No  verity  of  slowly  strengthening  light 
Early  or  late  hath  issued ;  that  the  day 
Scarce-shown,  relapses  rather,  self-withdrawn, 
Back  to  the  glooms  of  ante-natal  night. 
For  this,  0  human  beings,  mourn  we  may. 


TWO  MOODS. 


Ah,  blame  him  not  because  he's  gay ! 
That  he  should  smile,  and  jest,  and  play 
But  shows  how  lightly  he  can  bear, 
How  well  forget  that  load  which,  where 
Thought  is,  is  with  it,  and  howe'er 
Dissembled,  or  indeed  forgot. 
Still  is  a  load,  and  ceases  not. 
This  aged  earth  that  each  new  spring 
Comes  forth  so  young,  so  ravishing 
In  summer  robes  for  all  to  see. 
Of  iiower,  and  leaf,  and  bloomy  tree. 
For  all  her  scarlet,  gold,  and  green. 
Fails  not  to  keep  within  unseen 
That  inner  purpose  and  that  force 
Which  on  the  untiring  orbit's  course 
Around  the  sun,  amidst  the  spheres 
Still  bears  her  thro'  the  eternal  years. 
Ah,  blame  the  flowers  and  fruits  of  May, 
And  then  blame  him  because  he's  gay. 

Ah,  blame  him  not,  for  not  being  gay. 

Because  an  hundred  times  a  day 

He  doth  not  currently  repay 

Sweet  words  with  ready  words  as  sweet. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  375 

And  for  each  smile  a  smile  repeat. 

To  mute  submissiveness  confined, 

Blame  not,  if  once  or  twice  the  mind 

Its  pent-up  indignation  wreak 

In  scowling  brow  and  flushing  cheek. 

And  smiles  curled  back  as  soon  as  born, 

To  dire  significance  of  scorn. 

Nor  blame  if  once,  and  once  again 

He  wring  the  hearts  of  milder  men, 

If  slights,  the  worse  if  undesigned. 

Should  seem  unbrotherly,  unkind ; 

For  though  tree  wave,  and  blossom  blow 

Above,  earth  hides  a  fire  below ; 

Her  seas  the  starry  laws  obey, 

And  she  from  her  own  ordered  way 

Swerves  not,  because  it  dims  the  day 

Or  changes  verdure  to  decay. 

Ah,  blame  the  great  world  on  its  way, 

And  then  blame  him  for  not  being  gay. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

Dance  on,  dance  on,  we  see,  we  see 
Youth  goes,  alack,  and  with  it  glee, 
A  boy  the  old  man  ne'er  can  be ; 
Maternal  thirty  scarce  can  find 
The  sweet  sixteen  long  left  behind ; 
Old  folks  must  toil,  and  scrape,  and  strain, 
That  boys  and  girls  may  once  again 
Be  that  for  them  they  cannot  be, 
But  which  it  gives  them  joy  to  see, 
■  Youth  goes  and  glee ;  but  not  in  vain, 
Young  folks,  if  only  you  remain. 

Dance  on,  dance  on,  'tis  joy  to  see; 
The  dry  red  leaves  on  winter's  tree 
Can  feel  the  new  sap  rising  free. 
On,  on,  j^oung  folks ;  so  you  survive. 
The  dead  themselves  are  still  alive ; 
The  blood  in  dull  parental  veins 
Long  numbed,  a  tingling  life  regains. 


376  CLOUGIVS  POEMS. 

Deep  down  in  earth,  the  tough  old  root 
Is  conscious  still  of  flower  and  fruit. 
Spring  goes  and  glee  but  were  not  vain : 
In  you,  young  folks,  they  come  again. 

Dance  on,  dance  on,  we  see,  we  feel ; 

Wind,  wind  your  waltzes,  wind  and  wheel, 

Our  senses  too  with  music  reel ; 

Nor  let  your  pairs  neglect  to  till 

The  old  ancestral  scorned  quadrille. 

Let  hand  the  hand  uplifted  seek, 

And  pleasure  fly  from  cheek  to  cheek  ; 

Love  too ;  but  gently,  nor  astray, 

And  yet,  deluder,  yet  in  play. 

Dance  on ;  youth  goes :  but  all's  not  vain, 

Young  folks,  if  only  you  remain. 

.  Dance  on,  dance  on,  'tis  joy  to  see ; 
We  once  were  nimble  e'en  as  ye, 
And  danced  to  give  the  oldest  glee ; 
O  wherefore  add,  as  we,  you  too, 
Once  gone  your  prime  cannot  renew ; 
You  too,  like  us,  at  last  shall  stand 
To  Avatch  and  not  to  join  the  band, 
Content  some  day  (a  far-off  day) 
To  your  supplanters  soft  to  say, 
Youth  goes,  but  goes  not  all  in  vain, 
Young  folks,  so  only  you  remain, 
Dance  on,  dance  on,  'tis  joy  to  see. 


SOLVITUR  ACRIS   HIEMS. 

Youth,  that  went,  is  come  again, 
Youth,  for  which  we  all  were  fain ; 
With  soft  pleasure  and  sweet  pain 
In  each  nerve  and  every  vein, 
Circling  through  the  heart  and  brain. 
Whence  and  wherefore  come  again  ? 
Eva,  tell  me ! 

Dead  and  buried  when  we  thought  him, 
Who  the  magic  spell  hath  taught  him  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  377 

Who  the  strong  elixir  brought  him  ? 
Dead  and  buried  as  we  thought, 
Lo !  unasked  for  and  unsought 
Comes  he,  shall  it  be  for  nought  ? 
Eva,  tell  me ! 

Youth  that  lifeless  long  had  lain, 
Youth  that  long  we  longed  in  vain  for, 
Used  to  grumble  and  complain  for. 
Thought  at  last  to  entertain 
A  decorous  cool  disdain  for. 
On  a  sudden  see  again 
Comes,  but  will  not  long  remain. 
Comes,  with  whom  too  in  his  train, 
Comes,  and  shall  it  be  in  vain  ? 

Eva,  tell  me ! 


THESIS  AND  ANTITHESIS. 

If  that  we  thus  are  guilty  doth  appear. 
Ah,  guilty  tho'  we  are.  grave  judges,  hear ! 
Ah,  yes ;  if  ever  you  in  your  sweet  youth 
'Midst  pleasure's  borders  missed  the  track  of  truth. 
Made  love  on  benches  underneath  green  trees, 
Stuffed  tender  rhymes  with  old  new  similes. 
Whispered  soft  anythings,  and  in  the  blood 
Felt  all  you  said  not  most  was  understood  — 
Ah,  if  you  have  —  as  which  of  you  has  not  ?  — 
Nor  what  you  were  have  utterly  forgot. 
Then  be  not  stern  to  faults  yourselves  have  known, 
To  others  harsh,  kind  to  yourselves  alone. 

That  we,  young  sir,  beneath  our  youth's  green  trees 
Once  did,  not  what  should  profit,  but  should  please. 
In  foolish  longing  and  in  love-sick  play 
Forgot  the  truth  and  lost  the  flying  day  — 
That  we  went  wrong  we  say  not  is  not  true, 
But,  if  we  erred,  were  we  not  punished  too  ? 
If  not  —  if  no  one  checked  our  wandering  feet,  — 
Shall  we  our  parents'  negligence  repeat  ?  — 


378  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

In  future  times  that  ancient  loss  renew, 
If  none  saved  us,  forbear  from  saving  you  ? 
Nor  let  that  justice  in  your  faults  be  seen 
Which  in  our  own  or  was  or  should  have  been  ? 

Yet,  yet,  recall  the  mind  that  you  had  then, 

And,  so  recalling,  listen  yet  again ; 

If  you  escaped,  'tis  plainly  understood 

Impunity  may  leave  a  culprit  good ; 

If  you  were  punished,  did  you  then,  as  now, 

The  justice  of  that  punishment  allow  ? 

Did  what  your  age  consents  to  now,  appear 

Expedient  then  and  needfully  severe  ? 

In  youth's  indulgence  think  there  yet  might  be 

A  truth  forgot  by  grey  severity. 

That  strictness  and  that  laxity  between. 

Be  yours  the  wisdom  to  detect  the  mean. 

'Tis  possible,  young  sir,  that  some  excess 
Mars  youthful  judgment  and  old  men's  no  less ; 
Yet  we  must  take  our  counsel  as  we  may 
For  (flying  years  this  lesson  still  convey), 
'Tis  worst  unwisdom  to  be  overwise. 
And  not  to  use,  but  still  correct  one's  eyes. 


av€fXb}\ui. 


Go,  foolish  thoughts,  and  join  the  throng 

Of  myriads  gone  before ; 
To  flutter  and  flap  and  flit  along 

The  airy  limbo  shore. 

Go,  words  of  sport  and  words  of  wit, 

Sarcastic  point  and  tine, 
And  words  of  wisdom  wholly  fit, 

With  folly's  to  combine. 

Go,  words  of  wisdom,  words  of  sense, 
Which,  while  the  heart  belied, 

Tlie  tongue  still  uttered  for  pretence, 
The  inner  blank  to  hide. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  379 

Go,  words  of  wit,  so  gay,  so  light, 

That  still  were  meant  express 
To  soothe  the  smart  of  fancied  slight 

By  fancies  of  success. 

Go,  broodings  vain  o'er  fancied  wrong ; 

Go,  love-dreams  vainer  still ; 
And  scorn  that's  not,  but  would  be,  strong  j 

And  Pride  without  a  Will. 

Go,  foolish  thoughts,  and  find  your  way 

Where  myriads  went  before, 
To  languish  out  your  lingering  day 

Upon  the  limbo  shore. 

November,  1850. 


COLUMBUS. 


How  in  God's  name  did  Columbus  get  over 

Is  a  pure  wonder  to  me,  I  protest, 
Cabot,  and  Raleigh  too,  that  well-read  rover, 
Frobisher,  Dampier,  Drake,  and  the  rest. 

Bad  enough  all  the  same. 

For  them  that  after  came. 

But,  in  great  Heaven's  name. 

How  he  should  ever  think 

That  on  the  other  brink 
Of  this  wild  waste  terra  firm  a  should  be. 
Is  a  pure  wonder,  I  must  say,  to  me. 

How  a  man  ever  should  hope  to  get  thither. 

E'en  if  he  knew  that  there  was  another  side ; 
But  to  suppose  he  should  come  any  whither. 
Sailing  straight  on  into  chaos  untried, 

In  spite  of  the  motion 

Across  the  whole  ocean. 

To  stick  to  the  notion 

That  in  some  nook  or  bend 

Of  a  sea  without  end 
He  should  find  North  and  South  America, 
Was  a  pure  madness,  indeed  I  must  say,  to  me. 


380  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

What  if  wise  men  had,  as  far  back  as  Ptolemy, 

Judged  that  the  earth  like  an  orange  was  round, 
None  of  them  ever  said,  Come  along,  follow  me, 
Sail  to  the  West,  and  the  East  will  be  found. 

Many  a  day  before 

Ever  they'd  come  ashore. 

From  the  '  San  Salvador,' 

Sadder  and  wiser  men 

They'd  have  turned  back  again ; 
And  that  he  did  not,  but  did  cross  the  sea, 
Is  a  pure  wonder,  1  must  say,  to  me. 


EVEN  THE  WINDS  AND  THE   SEA  OBEY. 

Said  the  Poet,  I  wouldn't  maintain, 

As  the  mystical  German  has  done. 
That  the  land,  inexistent  till  then, 

To  reward  him  then  first  saw  the  sun ; 
And  yet  I  could  deem  it  was  so. 

As  o'er  the  new  waters  he  sailed, 
That  his  soul  made  the  breezes  to  blow, 

With  his  courage  the  breezes  had  failed; 
His  strong  quiet  purpose  had  still 

The  hurricane's  fury  withheld  ; 
The  resolve  of  his  conquering  will 

The  lingering  vessel  impelled  : 
For  the  beings,  the  powers  that  range 

In  the  air,  on  the  earth,  at  our  sides. 
Can  modify,  temper,  and  change 

Stronger  things  than  the  winds  and  the  tides, 
By  forces  occult  can  the  laws  — 

As  we  style  them  —  of  nature  o'errule; 
Can  cause,  so  to  say,  every  cause. 

And  our  best  mathematics  befool ; 
Can  defeat  calculation  and  plan. 

Baffle  schemes  ne'er  so  wisely  designed, 
But  will  bow  to  the  genius  of  man. 

And  acknowledge  a  sovereign  mind. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  381 


KEPOSE  IN  EGYPT. 

O  HAPPY  mother !  —  while  the  man  wayworn 
Sleeps  by  his  ass  and  dreams  of  daily  bread, 
Wakeful  and  heedful  for  thy  infant  care  — 
0  happy  mother !  —  while  thy  husband  sleeps, 
Art  privileged,  0  blessed  one,  to  see 
Celestial  strangers  sharing  in  thy  task, 
And  visible  angels  waiting  on  thy  child. 

Take,  0  young  soul,  O  infant  heaven-desired, 

Take  and  fear  not  the  cates,  although  of  earth, 

Which  to  thy  hands  celestial  hands  extend. 

Take  and  fear  not :  such  vulgar  meats  of  life 

Thy  spirit  lips  no  more  must  scorn  to  pass ; 

The  seeming  ill,  contaminating  joys. 

Thy  sense  divine  no  more  be  loth  to  allow ; 

The  pleasures  as  the  pains  of  our  strange  life 

Thou  art  engaged,  self-compromised,  to  share. 

Look  up,  upon  thy  mother's  face  there  sits 

No  sad  suspicion  of  a  lurking  ill. 

No  shamed  confession  of  a  needful  sin ; 

Mistrust  her  not,  although  of  earth  she  too : 

Look  up !  the  bright-eyed  cherubs  overhead 

Strew  from  mid  air  fresh  flowers  to  crown  the  just. 

Look !  thy  own  father's  servants  these,  and  thine, 

Who  at  his  bidding  and  at  thine  are  here. 

In  thine  own  word  was  it  not  said  long  since 

Butter  and  honey  shall  he  eat,  and  learn 

The  evil  to  refuse  and  choose  the  good? 

Fear  not,  0  babe  divine,  fear  not,  accept ; 

0  happy  mother,  privileged  to  see. 

While  the  man  sleeps,  the  sacred  mystery. 


TO  A   SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Lips,  lips,  open ! 

Up  comes  a  little  bird  that  lives  inside  — 

Up  comes  a  little  bird,  and  peeps,  and  out  he  flies. 


382  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

All  the  day  he  sits  inside,  and  sometimes  he  sings, 

Up  he  comes,  and   out  he  goes  at  night  to  spread  his 

wings- 
Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  will  you  go  ? 
Round  about  the  world,  while  nobody  can  know. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  do  you  flee  ? 

Far  away  around  the  world,  while  nobody  can  see. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  how  long  will  you  roam  ? 
All  round  the  world  and  around  again  home ; 

Round  the  round  world,  and  back  through  the  air. 
When  the  morning  comes,  the  little  bird  is  there. 

Back  comes  the  little  bird  and  looks  and  in  he  flies, 
Up  wakes  the  little  boy,  and  opens  both  his  eyes. 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  boy,  little  bird's  away. 
Little  bird  will  come  again,  by  the  peep  of  day ; 

Sleep,  little  boy,  the  little  bird  must  go 

Round  about  the  world,  while  nobody  can  know. 

Sleep,  sleep  sound,  little  bird  goes  round. 
Round  and  round  he  goes ;  sleep,  sleep  sound. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  GOETHE. 


Over  every  hill 

All  is  still ; 
In  no  leaf  of  any  tree 

Can  you  see 
The  motion  of  a  breath. 
Every  bird  has  ceased  its  song, 

Wait ;  and  thou  too,  ere  long, 

Shall  be  quiet  in  death. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  383 


IT. 

Who  ne'er  his  bread  with  tears  hath  ate, 
Who  never  through  the  sad  night  hours 

Weeping  upon  his  bed  hath  sate, 
He  knows  not  you,  you  heavenly  powers. 

Forth  into  life  you  bid  us  go. 

And  into  guilt  you  let  us  fall, 
Then  leave  us  to  endure  the  woe 

It  brings  unfailingly  to  all. 

III. 

You   complain   of  the  woman  for  roving  from  one  to 
another :  — 
Where  is  the  constant  man  whom  she  is  trying  to  find? 

IV. 

Slumber  and  Sleep,  two  brothers  appointed  to  serve  the 
immortals, 
By  Prometheus  were  brought  hither  to  comfort  man- 
kind ; 
But  what  in  heaven  was  light,  to  human  creatures  was 
heavy : — 
Slumber  became  our  Sleep,  Sleep  unto  mortals  was 
Death. 

V. 

Oh,  the  beautiful  child!  and  oh,  the  most  happy  mother! 

She  in  her  infant  blessed,  and  in  its  mother  the  babe — 

What  sweet  longing  within  me  this  picture  might  not 

occasion. 

Were  I  not,  Joseph,  like  you,  calmly  condemned  to 

stand  by ! 

VI. 

Diogenes  by  his  tub,  contenting  himself  with  the  sun- 
shine. 
And  Calanus  with  joy  mounting  his  funeral  pyre  :  — 
Great  examples  were  these  for  the  eager  approving  of 
Phihp, 
But  for  the  Conqueror  of  Earth  were,  as  the  earth  was, 
too  small. 


384  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 


URANUS.^ 

When  on  the  primal  peaceful  blank  profound, 

Which  in  its  still  unknowing  silence  holds 

All  knowledge,  ever  by  withholding  holds  — 

When  on  that  void  (like  footfalls  in  far  rooms), 

In  faint  pulsations  from  the  whitening  East 

Articulate  voices  first  were  felt  to  stir. 

And  the  great  child,  in  dreaming  grown  to  man, 

Losing  his  dream  to  piece  it  up  began ; 

Then  Plato  in  me  said, 

*  'Tis  but  the  figured  ceiling  overhead, 

With  cunning  diagrams  bestarred,  that  shine 

In  all  the  three  dimensions,  are  endowed 

With  motion  too  by  skill  mechanical. 

That  thou  in  height,  and  depth,  and  breadth,  and  power, 

Schooled  unto  pure  Mathesis,  might  proceed 

To  higher  entities,  whereof  in  us 

Copies  are  seen,  existent  they  themselves 

In  the  sole  kingdom  of  the  Mind  and  God. 

Mind  not  the  stars,  mind  thou  thy  Mind  and  God.' 

By  that  supremer  Word 

O'ermastered,  deafly  heard 

Were  hauntings  dim  of  old  astrologies  ; 

Chaldean  mumblings  vast,  with  gossip  light 

From  modern  ologistic  fancyings  mixed. 

Of  suns  and  stars,  by  hypothetic  men 

Of  other  frame  than  ours  inhabited. 

Of  lunar  seas  and  lunar  craters  huge. 

And  was  there  atmosphere,  or  was  there  not  ? 

And  without  oxygen  could  life  subsist  ? 

And  was  the  world  originally  mist  ?  — 

Talk  they  as  talk  they  list, 

I,  in  that  ampler  voice, 

Unheeding,  did  rejoice. 

1  This  thought  is  taken  from  a  passage  on  Astronomy  in  Plato's 
Rppuhlic,  in  which  the  followinjj  sentence  occurs,  vii.  525),  D:  'We 
must  use  the  fretwork  of  the  sky  as  patterns,  with  a  view  to  the  study 
wliich  aims  at  these  higher  realities,  just  as  if  we  chanced  to  meet  with 
diagrams  cunningly  drawn  and  devised  by  Dmdalus  or  some  other 
craftsman  or  painter.' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  385 


SELENE. 

My  beloved,  is  it  nothing 
Though  we  meet  not,  neither  can, 
That  I  see  thee,  and  thou  me, 
That  we  see,  and  see  we  see. 
When  I  see  I  also  feel  thee  ; 
Is  it  nothing,  my  beloved  ? 

Thy  luminous  clear  beauty 

Brightens  on  me  in  my  night, 

I  withdraw  into  my  darkness 

To  allure  thee  into  light. 

About  me  and  upon  me  I  feel  them  pass  and  stay, 

About  me,  deep  into  me,  every  lucid  tender  ray. 

And  thou,  thou  also  feelest 

When  thou  stealest 

Shamefaced  and  half  afraid 

To  the  chamber  of  thy  shade, 

Thou  in  thy  turn. 

Thou  too  feelest 

Something  follow,  something  yearn, 

A  full  orb  blaze  and  burn. 

My  full  orb  upon  thine. 

As  thine  erst,  gently  smiling. 

Softly  wooing,  sweetly  wiling, 

Gleamed  on  mine ; 

So  mine  on  thine  in  turn 

When  thou  feelest  blaze  and  burn. 

Is  it  nothing,  my  beloved  ? 

My  beloved,  is  it  nothing 
Wlien  I  see  thee  and  thou  me, 
When  we  each  other  see. 
Is  it  nothing,  my  beloved  ? 

Closer,  closer  come  unto  me. 
Shall  I  see  thee  and  no  more  ? 
I  can  see  thee,  is  that  all  ? 
Let  me  also, 


386  CLOUGWS  POEMS. 

Let  me  feel  thee, 

Closer,  closer,  my  beloved. 

Come  unto  me,  come  to  me,  come ! 

0  cruel,  cruel  lot,  still  thou  rollest,  stayest  not, 
Lookest  onward,  look'st  before. 

Yet  I  follow,  evermore. 

Oh,  cold  and  cruel  fate,  thou  rollest  on  thy  way, 

Scarcely  lookest,  wilt  not  stay. 

From  thine  alien  way. 

The  inevitable  motion 
Bears  me  forth  upon  the  line 
Whose  course  I  cannot  see. 

1  must  move  as  it  conveys  me 
Evermore.     It  so  must  be. 

0  cold  one,  and  I  round  thee 
Revolve,  round  only  thee, 
Straining  ever  to  be  nearer 
While  thou  evadest  still ; 
Repellest  still,  O  cold  one, 
Nay,  but  closer,  closer,  closer, 
My  beloved,  come,  come,  come  ! 

The  inevitable  motion 

Carries  both  upon  its  line, 

Also  you  as  well  as  me. 

What  is  best,  and  what  is  strongest, 

We  obey.     It  so  must  be. 

Cruel,  cruel,  didst  thou  only 
Feel  as  I  feel  evermore, 
A  force,  though  in,  not  of  me, 
Drawing  inward,  in,  in,  in. 

Yea,  thou  shalt  though,  ere  all  endeth, 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  closer,  closer, 
My  beloved,  close,  close  to  thee, 
Come  to  thee,  come,  come,  come  ! 

The  inevitable  motion 
Bears  us  both  upon  its  line 
Together,  you  as  me, 
Together  and  asunder, 
Evermore.     It  so  must  be. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  387 


AT   KOME. 

0  RICHLY  soiled  and  richly  sunned, 
Exuberant,  fervid,  and  fecund ! 

Is  this  the  fixed  condition 
On  which  may  Northern  pilgrim  come, 
To  imbibe  thine  ether-air,  and  sum 

Thy  store  of  old  tradition  ? 
Must  we  be  chill,  if  clean,  and  stand 
Foot-deep  in  dirt  on  classic  land  ? 

So  is  it :  in  all  ages  so. 

And  in  all  places  man  can  know. 

From  homely  roots  unseen  below 

The  stem  in  forest,  field,  and  bower. 

Derives  the  emanative  power 

That  crowns  it  with  the  ethereal  flower. 

From  mixtures  foetid,  foul,  and  sour 

Draws  juices  that  those  petals  fill. 

Ah  Nature,  if  indeed  thy  will 
Thou  own'st  it,  it  shall  not  be  ill ! 
And  truly  here,  in  this  quick  clime. 
Where,  scarcely  bound  by  space  or  time, 
The  elements  in  half  a  day 
Toss  otf  with  exquisitest  play 
What  our  cold  seasons  toil  and  grieve,  " 
And  never  quite  at  last  achieve  ; 
Where  processes,  with  pain,  and  fear, 
Disgust,  and  horror  wrought,  appear 
The  quick  mutations  of  a  dance, 
Wherein  retiring  but  to  advance. 
Life,  in  brief  interpause  of  death. 
One  moment  sitting  taking  breath, 
Forth  comes  again  as  glad  as  e'er. 
In  some  new  figure  full  as  fair, 
"Where  what  has  scarcely  ceased  to  be, 
Instinct  with  newer  birth  we  see  — 
What  dies,  already,  look  you,  lives ; 
In  such  a  clime,  who  thinks,  forgives  ; 
Who  sees,  will  understand ;  who  knows, 
In  calm  of  knowledge  find  repose, 


388  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

And  thoughtful  as  of  glory  gone, 
So  too  of  more  to  come  anon, 
Of  permanent  existence  sure, 
Brief  intermediate  breaks  endure. 

0  Nature,  if  indeed  thy  will, 
Thou  ownest  it,  it  is  not  ill ! 
And  e'en  as  oft  on  heathy  hill, 
On  moorland  black,  and  ferny  fells, 
Beside  thy  brooks  and  in  thy  dells, 
Was  welcomed  erst  the  kindly  stain 
Of  thy  true  earth,  e'en  so  again 
With  resignation  fair,  and  meet 
The  dirt  and  refuse  of  thy  street. 
My  philosophic  foot  shall  greet. 
So  leave  but  perfect  to  my  eye 
Thy  columns,  set  against  thy  sky ! 


LAST  WORDS.    NAPOLEON  AND  WELLINGTON. 

NAPOLEON. 

Is  it  this,  then,  0  world-warrior. 
That,  exulting,  through  the  folds 

Of  the  dark  and  cloudy  barrier 
Thine  enfranchised  eye  beholds  ? 

'Is,  when  blessed  hands  relieve  thee 
From  the  gross  and  mortal  clay. 

This  the  heaven  that  should  receive  thee  ? 
'  Tete  d'armee.' 

Now  the  final  link  is  breaking, 

Of  the  fierce,  corroding  chain, 
And  the  ships,  their  watch  forsaking, 

Bid  the  seas  no  more  detain, 
Whither  is  it,  freed  and  risen, 

The  pure  spirit  seeks  away. 
Quits  for  what  the  weary  prison  ? 
'  T§te  d'armde.' 

Doubtless  —  angels,  hovering  o'er  thee 
In  thine  exile's  sad  abode, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  389 

Marshalled  even  now  before  thee, 

Move  upon  that  chosen  road  ! 
Thither  they,  ere  friends  have  laid  thee 

Where  sad  willows  o'er  thee  play, 
Shall  already  have  conveyed  thee ! 
*  Tete  d'armee.' 

Shall  great  captains,  foiled  and  broken, 
Hear  from  thee  on  each  great  day. 

At  the  crisis,  a  word  spoken  — 
Word  that  battles  still  obey  — 

*  Cuirassiers  here,  here  those  cannon ; 
Quick,  those  squadrons,  up  —  away ! 

To  the  charge,  on  —  as  one  man,  on ! ' 
'Tgte  d'armee.' 

(Yes,  too  true,  alas  !  while  sated 

Of  the  wars  so  slow  to  cease. 
Nations,  once  that  scorned  and  hated, 

Would  to  Wisdom  turn,  and  Peace ; 
Thy  dire  impulse  still  obeying, 

Fevered  youths,  as  in  the  old  day, 

In  their  hearts  still  find  thee  saying, 

'  Tgte  d'armee.') 

Oh,  poor  soul !  —  Or  do  I  view  thee, 
From  earth's  battle-fields  withlield, 

In  a  dream,  assembling  to  thee 

Troops  that  quell  not,  nor  are  quelled. 

Breaking  airy  lines,  defeating 
Limbo-kings,  and,  as  to-day, 

Idly  to  all  time  repeating 

'Tete  d'armee'? 


WELLINGTON. 

And  what  the  words,  that  with  his  failing  breath 
Did  England  hear  her  aged  soldier  say  ? 

I  know  not.     Yielding  tranquilly  to  death. 

With  no  proud  speech,  no  boast,  he  passed  away. 

Not  stirring  words,  nor  gallant  deeds  alone. 
Plain  patient  work  fulfilled  that  length  of  life ; 


390  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

Duty,  not  glory  —  Service,  not  a  throne. 
Inspired  his  effort,  set  for  him  the  strife. 

Therefore  just  Fortune,  with  one  hasty  blow, 
Spurning  her  minion.  Glory's,  Victory's  lord, 

Gave  all  to  him  that  was  content  to  know, 
In  service  done  its  own  supreme  reward. 

The  words  he  said,  if  haply  words  there  were. 
When  full  of  years  and  works  he  passed  away, 

Most  naturally  might,  methinks,  refer 
To  some  poor  humble  business  of  to-day. 

'  That  humble  simple  duty  of  the  day 

Perform,'  he  bids ;  '  ask  not  if  small  or  great : 

Serve  in  thy  post ;  be  faithful,  and  obey ; 

Who  serves  her  truly,  sometimes  saves  the  State.' 

1862. 


PESCHIERA. 


What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost  ? 
'  'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all.' 

The  tricolour  —  a  trampled  rag 
Lies,  dirt  and  dust ;  the  lines  I  track 
By  sentry  boxes  yellow-black. 
Lead  up  to  no  Italian  flag. 

I  see  the  Croat  soldier  stand 
Upon  the  grass  of  your  redoubts ; 
The  eagle  with  his  black  wings  flouts 
The  breath  and  beauty  of  your  land. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  although  in  vain, 
O  men  of  Brescia,  on  the  day 
Of  lost  past  hope,  I  heard  you  say 
Your  welcome  to  the  noble  pain. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  391 

You  say,  '  Since  so  it  is,  —  good-bye 
Sweet  life,  high  hope ;  but  whatsoe'er 
May  be,  or  must,  no  tongue  shall  dare 
To  tell,  '« The  Lombard  feared  to  die !  "  ' 

You  said  (there  shall  be  answer  fit), 

*  And  if  our  children  must  obey, 
They  must ;  but  thinking  on  this  day 
'Twill  less  debase  them  to  submit.' 

You  said  (Oh  not  in  vain  you  said), 

*  Haste,  brothers,  haste,  while  yet  we  may ; 
The  hours  ebb  fast  of  this  one  day 
When  blood  may  yet  be  nobly  shed.' 

Ah  !  not  for  idle  hatred,  not 
For  honour,  fame,  nor  self-applause, 
But  for  the  glory  of  the  cause. 
You  did,  what  will  not  be  forgot. 

And  though  the  stranger  stand,  'tis  true, 
By  force  and  fortune's  right  he  stands ; 
By  fortune,  which  is  in  God's  hands, 
And  strength,  which  yet  shall  spring  in  you. 

This  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost, 
'  'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all.' 
1849. 


ALTERAM  PARTEM. 

Ob  shall  I  say.  Vain  word,  false  thought, 
Since  Prudence  hath  her  martyrs  too, 
And  Wisdom  dictates  not  to  do. 
Till  doing  shall  be  not  for  nought  ? 

Not  ours  to  give  or  lose  is  life ; 
Will  Nature,  when  her  brave  ones  fall. 
Remake  her  work  ?  or  songs  recall 
Death's  victim  slain  in  useless  strife  ? 


392  CLOUGH'S  POEMS. 

That  rivers  flow  into  the  sea 

Is  loss  and  waste,  the  foolish  say, 

Nor  know  that  back  they  find  their  way, 

Unseen,  to  where  they  wont  to  be. 

Showers  fall  upon  the  hills,  springs  flow, 
The  river  runneth  still  at  hand. 
Brave  men  are  born  into  the  land, 
And  whence  the  foolish  do  not  know. 

No !  no  vain  voice  did  on  me  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost, 
< '  Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all.' 
1849. 


SAY  NOT  THE  STRUGGLE  NOUGHT 
AVAILETH. 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers. 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking. 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making. 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only. 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

1849. 


INDEX 


THE  FIRST  LINES. 


o>«Ko 


A  Highland  inn  among  tlie  western  hills         » 

A  youth  and  maid  upon  a  summer  night 

A  youth  was  I.     An  elder  friend  with  me 

Across  the  sea,  along  the  shore 

Ah,  blame  him  not  because  he's  gay  ! 

Am  I  with  you,  or  you  with  me  ?    . 

And  replying,  said  godlike,  swift-footed  Achilles 

As,  at  a  railway  junction,  men 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 

Away,  haunt  thou  not  me       .... 


Beside  me,  — in  the  car,  — she  sat  . 

Blessed  are  those  who  have  not  seen 

Bright  October  was  come,  the  misty -bright  October 

But  a  revulsion  again  came  over  the  spirit  of  Elspie 

But  if  as  not  by  that  the  soul  desired 

But  that  from  slow  dissolving  pomps  of  dawn 

But  whether  in  the  uncoloured  light  of  truth  . 

Cease,  empty  Faith,  the  Spectrum  saith  . 

Come  back  again,  my  olden  lieart ! 

Come  back,  come  back,  behold  with  straining  mast 

Come  home,  come  hpnje  !  and  where  is  home  for  me 

Come,  Poet,  come ! 


Dance  on,  dance  on,  we  see,  we  see        .... 
Dear  Eustatio,  I  write  that  you  may  write  me  an  answer 
Dearest  of  boys,  please  come  to-day        .... 
Diogenes  by  his  tub,  contenting  himself  with  the  sunshine 
Duty  —  that's  to  say,  complying 

Each  for  himself  is  still  the  rule 

Eastward,  or  Northward,  or  West  ?     I  wander  and  ask  as  I 
wander      ......... 

Edward  and  Jane  a  married  couple  were 

393 


PAGE 

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314 

293 

76 

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358 

364 

27 

28 


230 
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200 
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291 
374 
290 

71 

5 

354 

352 

371 

375 
234 
296 
383 
141 


143 

274 
331 


394 


INDEX   OF  THE   FIRST  LINES. 


Farewell,  farewell !     Her  vans  the  vessel  tries 

Farewell,  my  Highland  lassie  !  when  the  year  returns  around 

For  she  confessed,  as  they  sat  in  the  dusk,  and  he  saw  not 

her  blushes 

From  thy  far  sources,  'mid  mountains  airily  climbing    . 

Go,  foolish  thoughts,  and  join  the  throng 
Goddess,  the  anger  sing  of  the  Pelean  Achilles 
Green  fields  of  England  !  wheresoe'er     . 

Hearken  to  me,  ye  mothers  of  my  tent  .... 

Here  am  I  yet,  another  twelvemonth  spent 

Hope  evermore  and  believe,  O  man,  for  e'en  as  thy  thought 

How  in  God's  name  did  Columbus  get  over     . 

How  often  sit  I,  poring  o'er 


351 
22 


I  dreamed  a  dream :  I  dreamt  that  I  espied    . 

I  have  seen  higher,  holier  things  than  these    . 

I  saw  again  the  spirits  on  a  day       .... 

I  stayed  at  La  Quenille,  ten  miles  or  more 

If  it  is  thou  whose  casual  hand  withdraws 

If  that  we  thus  are  guilty  doth  appear    . 

If,  when  in  cheerless  wanderings,  dull  and  cold 

In  controversial  foul  impureness     .        .        .        . 

Is  it  illusion  ?  or  does  tliere  a  spirit  from  perf ecter.  ages 

Is  it  this,  then,  O  world-warrior      .... 

Is  it  true,  ye  gods,  who  treat  us       ...        . 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know     ..... 

It  is  not  sweet  content,  be  sure        .... 

It  may  be  true 

It  was  but  some  few  nights  ago       .... 

It  was  the  afternoon  ;  and  the  sports  were  now  at  the  ending 

I've  often  wandered  how  it  is,  at  times  . 

Light  words  they  were,  and  lightly,  falsely  said 

Like  a  child 

Lips,  lips,  open  ! 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God  !         ... 


Matthew  and  Mark  and  Luke  and  holy  John  : 

Morn,  in   yellow   and   white,    came    broadening   out 

the  mountains 

My  beloved,  is  it  nothing 

My  sons,  and  ye  children  of  my  sons 

My  wind  is  turned  to  bitter  north  .... 


O  God!  O  God!  and  must  I  still  go  on     , 
O  happy  mother!  —  while  the  man  wayworn 
O  happy  they  whose  hearts  receive 
O  kind  protecting  Darkness!  a.s  a  child    . 
O  let  me  love  my  love  qnto  myself  alone 


from 


INDEX  OF  THE  FIRST  LINES.  395 


O  only  Source  of  all  our  light  and  life 

O  richly  soiled  and  richly  sunned    . 

O  ship,  ship,  ship    .... 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea 

O  tell  me,  friends,  wlule  yet  we  part 

O  Thou  whose  image  in  the  shrine  . 

Oh,  the  beautiful  child!  and  oh,  the  most  happy  mother ! 

'  Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true 

On  grass,  on  gravel,  in  the  sun 

On  the  mountain,  in  the  woodland 

Once  more  the  wonted  road  I  tread 

Or  shall  I  say.  Vain  word,  false  tliought 

Over  a  mountain  slope  with  leutisk,  and  with  abounding 

Over  every  liill 

Over  the  great  windy  waters,   and  over  the  clear-crested 
summits 


Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane         .... 

Roused  by  importunate  knocks 

Said  the  Poet,  I  wouldn't  maintain  .... 
Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth  .... 
Say,  will  it,  when  our  hairs  are  grey  .... 
Shall  I  decide  it  by  a  random  shot?  .... 
Since  that  last  evening  we  have  fallen  indeed  ! 
Slumber  and  Sleep,  two  brothers  appointed  to  serve  the 
immortals  ........ 

So  I  went  wrong 

So  in  the  cottage  with  Adam  the  pupils  five  together 

So  in  the  golden  moniing  they  parted  and  went  to  the  westward 

So  in  the  golden  weatlier  they  waited.    But  Philip  returned  not 

So  in  the  sinful  streets,  abstracted  and  alone  .... 

So  on  the  morrow's  niorrow,  with  Term-time  dread  returning 

So  spake  the  voice :  and  as  with  a  single  life  . 

Some  future  day  when  what  is  now  is  not 

Sweet  streamlet  bason!  at  thy  side 

That  children  in  their  loveliness  should  die     . 

That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind       ..... 

That  there  are  better  things  within  the  womb 

The  grasses  green  of  sweet  content  .... 

The  human  spirits  saw  I  on  a  day 

The  mighty  ocean  rolls  and  raves 

The  scene  is  different,  and  the  place,  the  air  . 

The  Silver  Wedding!  on  some  pensive  ear 

Tlie  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper  snow 

There  is  a  city,  upbuilt  on  the  quays  of  the  turbulent  Amo 

These  are  the  words  of  Jacob's  wives,  the  words    . 

Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only;  who        .... 

Though  to  the  vilest  things  beneath  the  moon         . 


396 


INDEX   OF  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


Thought  may  well  be  ever  ranging  .        .        .        , 

Through  the  great  sinful  streets  of  Naples  as  I  past 

To  see  the  rich  autumnal  tint  depart 

To  spend  uncounted  yeai's  of  pain  .... 

To  think  that  men  of  former  days  .... 

To  wear  out  heart,  and  nerves,  and  brain 

Trunks  the  forest  yielded  with  gums  ambrosial  oozing 

Truth  is  a  golden  thread,  seen  here  and  there 

'Twas  on  a  sunny  summer  day        .        .        . 

Upon  the  water,  in  the  boat 

Well,  well,  — Heaven  bless  you  all  from  day  to  day! 

Were  you  with  me,  or  1  with  you   . 

Were  I  with  you,  or  you  with  me  . 

Were  you  with  me,  or  I  with  you   . 

What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall 

What  we,  when  face  to  face  we  see 

Whate'er  you  dream  with  doubt  possest 

When  on  the  primal  peaceful  blank  profound 

When  panting  sighs  the  bosom  fill  . 

When  soft  September  brings  again 

When  the  dews  are  earliest  falling . 

Whence  are  ye,  vague  desires 

Whence  comest  thou,  shady  lane?  and  why  and  how? 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go?    . 

Who  is  this  man  that  walketh  in  the  field 

Who  ne'er  his  bread  with  tears  hath  ate 

Why  should  I  say  I  see  the  things  1  see  not  ? 

Ye  flags  of  Piccadilly 

Yes,  I  have  lied,  and  so  must  walk  my  way    .        .    ■ 
Yet  to  the  wondrous  St.,Peter's,  and  yet  to  the  solemn  Rotonda 
You  complain  of  the  woman  for  roving  from  one  to  another 
Youth,  that  went,  is  come  again      .        .        .         .        . 


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PR  4455  A2 1900 


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